ill  !! 


SILYERWOOD. 


S  I  L  A^  E  R  A¥  0  0  D  : 


J  iresio^^  ''h^e^,  -J 


^ml  of  Pemorits 


-From  the  sessions  of  sweet,  silent  thought,  I  summon  up  remembrance '' 

Shakspeare's  Sonnets. 


DERBY  &    JACKSON",    119    NASSAU-STREET. 
Cincinnati: — H.   W.   Derby    &    Co. 

1856. 


Entered  according  to  aet  of  Cftii^ee^;  Iv?  PERCY  &  .I;\CKSO,N,,in  the  Clerk's  Office  of 

the  U.  S.  DistrieVcoiJrt^ffti't^Sdutferli.'DiJitricJ.  of  X.ew-York,  in  the  year 

of  oiw  Lctrd  otie  thttuSanfi'eight  huhUleh  and  ftfty-six. 


PUDNKY    &    RusSKLL,   PkintEBS,   '9  JoHnStREET. 


Turning  tearfully  the  pages 

Which  the  Past  has  written  o'er, 
With  the  thousand  precious  records 
Of  the  changeful  heretofore — 

Records  luminous,  where  brightly 
Joy  the  sunbeam  glows  and  shines — 

Records  with  a  throb  of  heart-break  ; 
Trembling  all  along  the  lines. 

I  have  gathered  of  the  gladness, 
And  the  grief  that  fill  the  brook  ; 

Here  some  grace's  shadowy  outline — 
There  some  tender  tone  or  look. 

Transcripts,  oh  !  how  faint,  beloved  ! 

Dim  suggestions  of  the  rare 
Inner  realms  the  world  around  you 

Did  not  dream  were  hidden  there. 

Like  the  spies  of  old,  I've  entered, 
Searching  all  the  richest  parts. 

Bringing  back  these  grapes  of  Eschol 
From  the  Canaan  of  your  hearts  ! 


Mmssa 


For  I  need  the  wine  of  solace, 

Which  this  cluster  sweet  supplies, 

Since  ye  pluck  the  food  of  angels 
'Midst  the  hills  of  Paradise. 

Or,  as  Ruth  among  the  reapers, 
Memory,  like  a  gleaner,  strives 

Thus  to  gather  up  a  handful 
From  the  harvest  of  your  lives. 

Like  an  exile  in  her  sorrow. 

Seeking  midst  the  cast  off  leaves. 

Golden  grains  of  thought  and  feeling, 
Dropped  from  out  the  garnered  sheaves. 

If  she  has  not  filled  her  bosom 
With  the  full  and  ripen'd  ears, 

'Twas  because  her  eyes  were  clouded, 
And  she  could  not  see  for  tears  • 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

I. — Foreground  and  Background 9 

If.— The  Stirred  Nest 19 

III.— A  Home  Lost 25 

IV.— A  Home  Found '. 35 

v.— Fireside 41 

VI.— Uncle  Felix 51 

VII.— The  Naiad's  Spring 65 

Vm.— Ant-Hills 85 

IX.— New  Friends 93 

X. — An  Autumn  Sermon 99 

XI. — The  New  Governess  and  her  Pupils 113 

XII.— On  the  Wing 129 

XIII.— Grantley- Holm 135 

XIV.— A  Broken  Reverie 151 

XV.— A  Fashionable  Welcome 161 

XVI.— Breakfast-Table  Talk 171 

XVII. — Dealings  with  a  Man  of  Business 179 

XVIII-— Sights  in  a  Cathedral 195 

XIX.— Sympathies 205 

XX.— The  Way  of  the  World 215 

XXL— Contrasts 229 

XXII  —A  Glimpse  into  a  Heart 241 


YIII  CONTENTS. 

Page. 

XXIII.— Introspective 249 

XXIV.— Disappointed  Hopes 251 

XXV.— Bread  and  Butter  Philosophy 263 

XXVI. — Leaves  from  the  Tropics 271 

XX VII.— Lawrence  at  Home 281 

XXVIIL— The  Coming  Back 291 

XXIX.— A  Bridal 299 

XXX.— Unrest 309 

XXXI.— Summer  Visitors 317 

XXXn  — Castlehead , 329 

XXXIII.— Moonlight  Revelations 345 

XXXIV.— The  Clouds  Return  after  the  Rain .' 359 

XXXV.— Darkness  and  Light 365 

XXXVI.— The  Setting  Sun 373 

XXXVH.-Left  Behind 379 

XXXVIII —The  Redeemed  Pledge 387 

XXXIX.— Clear  Shining  after  the  Rain 397 


SILVER¥OOD. 


I. 


(iitgrounir  anir  ^atligrounk 

It  was  a  dim,  dark  picture,  rich  with  the  mellow  tints 
of  age  ;  and  the  broad  glow  of  the  coal  fire  falling  over  it, 
brought  out  with  striking  effect  from  the  background  of 
intense  shadow,  the  figures  that  filled  the  canvas.  The 
subject  of  the  painting  was  Dante's  familiar  story  of 
Ugolino,  who,  with  his  sons  and  grandsons,  was  impris- 
oned in  the  Pisan  tower, — the  key  thrown  into  the  Arno, 
and  they  left  to  die  of  starvation.  Through  the  narrovv^, 
grated  window  came  a  few  struggling  rays  of  light,  barely 
sufficient  to  reveal  the  gaunt,  gray-haired  old  Count, 
sitting  proudly  erect, — his  features  rigid,  his  hands 
clenched, — the    impersonation    of    unbending   endurance 

and  stony  w^oe.     On  his  knee  leaned  'Hhe  little  Anselm" 

1 


10  ^  SILVEKWOOD. 

of  tke  Poeli,  hi^  iilriocent,  questioning  face  lifted  with  a 
frightened  expression  to  the  eyes,  which,  wholly  unheed- 
ing him,  were  gazing  wildly  into  vacancy.  At  their  feet 
lay  one  of  the  sons  already  dead  with  hunger,  and  in  the 
obscurity  behind,  were  to  he  seen  the  two  other  hoys  in 
attitudes  that  bespoke  a  ghastly  despair,  too  hopeless  to 
admit  of  a  struggle. 

''  Mother,"  said  the  young  man,  who  had  been  silently 
walking  the  floor  with  folded  hands  behind  him,  but  who 
now  paused  before  the  picture  as  he  spoke — "mother,  I 
wonder  if  this  old  painting  has  taught  you  the  same  kind 
of  lessons  I  learn  from  it." 

"  Indeed,  my  son,  I  don't  know.  It  was  always  full 
of  interest  for  me,  principally,  perhaps,  from  home  associ- 
ations. One  of  the  earliest  memories  of  my  childhood  is, 
being  held  up  before  it  by  my  father,  while  he  told  me 
the  sad  story  it  delineates,  with  all  the  touches  of  pathos 
which  Chaucer  introduces  into  his  version  of  it.  I  can 
recall  even  yet,"  continued  Mrs.  Irvine,  musingly,  *^  the 
very  tones  in  which  he  used  to  recite  some  of  the  lines  : 

'  Father,  why  do  ye  weep  1 

Is  there  no  morsel  bread  that  ye  do  keep  1 
4  I  am  so  hungry  that  I  cannot  sleep  !' 

As  I  grew  older,  I  was,  perhaps,  more  interested  in  it  from 
the  fact  that  it  used  to  hang  on  the  wall  in  the  old  ances- 
tral   home   of  our   family,   on    the   southern    border   of 


FOREGROUND  AND  BACKGROUND.         11 

Scotland.  Your  great  grandfather,  ^  the  Laird  of  Newton,' 
as  he  was  called,  looked  on  that  picture  many  a  time  as 
you  do  now,  no  doubt ;  so  that  the  associations  it 
furnishes,  make  me  prize  it  more  than  its  own  intrinsic 
merit  as  a  work  of  art.  But  what  particular  lesson  do 
you  learn  from  it  ?" 

"  It  teaches  me  to  be  grateful,  mother  dear — " 
"  That  your  lot  was  not  cast  in  that  barbarous  age  ?" 
"  That  would  be  a  very  legitimate  lesson,  but  it  is  not 
the  uppermost  one  in  my  thoughts :  I  make  a  simpler  use 
of  it ;  for  I  love  to  look  off  from  the  gloom  and  suffering 
it  depicts,  to  the  beautiful  picture  about  me.  These 
softly  tinted  walls,  bright  with  the  fire-glow, — that 
painting  of  the  morning  landscape  opposite,  with  its 
cool,  delicate  sky, — the  luxurious  coloring  of  the  carpet, — 
the  flower-stand  parting  the  crimson  curtains, — the  open 
piano, — the  books  invitingly  scattered  here  and  there, — 
Zilpha's  drawing-table,  with  all  her  implements  upon  it, 
just  as  she  left  it  when  it  grew  too  dark  for  her  to 
work, — Fidele  lying  so  comfortably  napping  on  the  rug 
at  your  feet, — and  above  all,  you,  mother,  the  centre 
of  the  scene,  looking  so  serene  and  happy,  as  if  no 
shadows  had  ever  passed  over  your  heart.  We  need  contrast 
to  heighten  effect ;  so  Count  Ugolino  serves  as  a  back- 
ground to  my  home-picture,  such  as  the  old  masters  de- 
lighted in, — so  dark  as  to  make  more  lucid  the  lights  of 
the  foreground." 


12  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Yet  I  have  had  shadows,"  said  Mrs.  Irvine,  tenderly 
laying  her  hand  over  the  one  that  rested  on  the  arm  of 
her  chair, — "  shadows  that  form  for  me  just  the  hack- 
ground  you  speak  of.  When,  ten  years  ago,  your  father 
was  so  suddenly  snatched  away,— dying,  as  he  did,  so  far 
from  home, — leaving  me  with  Josepha,  a  hahy  on  my 
knee,  and  you,  the  eldest,  not  much  more  than  a  child  in 
years,  I  felt  as  if  the  burden  placed  in  my  hands  was  a 
heavy  one, — -as  if  the  joy  of  my  life  was  extinguished 
forever.  It  would  have  been  hard  then  to  convince  me 
that  I  should  again  know  the  quiet  happiness  I  now 
possess.  '  The  Lord  will  provide,'  I  said,  in  my  desola- 
tion ;  and  I  have  ever  since  proved  its  truth." 

"It  is  easy  to  he  trustful  and  grateful  when  the 
sunshine  of  prosperity  is  all  around  us, — easy  to  hear 
other  people's  trials ;  and  so  little  experience  have  I  had  of 
any  kind  of  suffering,  that  I'm  afraid  I  should  set  a  soryy 
example  of  patience." 

"  Yet  when  adversity  does  come,  Lawrence,  I  hope  the 
same  grace  that  upheld  me,  will  be  your  stay.  For 
happy  as  we  all  are  now, — so  happy,  indeed,  that  some- 
times I  reflect  on  it  with  trembling,  I  must  believe  that 
we  will  not  be  exempt  from  the  common  lot, — 

'  To  each  their  suffering — all  are  men* — 

'  The  days  of  darkness '  are  promised  ;  they  will  be  sent 
when  God  sees  best." 


FOREGROUND  AND  BACKGROUND.         13 

*'  Never  again  to  you^  mother,  I  trust,"  said  Lawrence, 
fondly.  ^^  Let  us  hope  and  believe  that  your  life-picture 
will  not  again  be  darkened.  As  for  myself, — you  see  I 
have  been  compelled  to  turn  to  the  picture  behind  us — " 

*'  I  pray  Grod  you  may  want  the  shadows  long !" 
interrupted  his  mother.  '^  Sometimes  I  feel  a  little 
hesitation  about  Edith  and  you  going  abroad — " 

^'  Why  should  you  ?  It  is  very  unlike  you,  mother 
dear,  to  harbor  fears  about  anything." 

^'  I'm  not  disposed  to  do  it  now  :  but  we  have  never 
been  separated  far, — ^only  while  you  have  been  at  college, 
and  I  shrink  a  little  from  the  thous^ht  of  it :  that's  all." 

*'  Then  we  will  not  go — " 

*' And  do  you  think  I  would  let  the  matter  of  feeling 
stand  in  the  way  of  your  improvement,  mental  and 
physical  ?  Your  long  course  of  study  has  worn  you 
down  a  good  deal,  and  you  really  need  this  relaxation 
before  entering  upon  your  professional  preparation. 
No, — I  am  happy  in  the  thought  of  all  the  enjoyment 
you  and  your  sister  will  have.  I  even  wish  that  Zilpha 
could  go  too." 

"So  do  I,  only  that  it  would  leave  you  too  lonely  for 
them  both  to  be  away.  Zilpha  never  seemed  to  have 
such  a  fancy  for  going  abroad  as  Edith." 

"No: — as  to  scenery,  she  says  she  is  satisfied  with 
what  our  own  continent  can  show  her  ;  and  as  to  works  of 
art,  she  thinks  Nature  all  she  can  desire." 


14:  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Yet  with  her  taste  for  the  pencil,  and  her  handling  of 
it,  she  would  so  enjoy  the  fine  things  one  sees  only  in 
foreign  galleries." 

"  Bat  she  knows  that  Edith's  taste  will  be  even  more 
ministered  to  than  her  own,  and  I  think  it  is  her  disinter- 
estedness, principally,  that  makes  her  insist  on  giving  her 
the  precedence,  though  as  the  elder,  it  would  he  more  nat- 
ural for  her  to  go." 

A  laughing  group  entering  the  parlor,  interrupted  the 
conversation.  Josepha,  a  child  not  much  over  ten,  in- 
stalled herself  ilpon  her  brother's  knee  ;  Eunice,  the  next 
older  sister,  couched  herself  upon  the  rug,  and  took  the 
head  of  the  little  grey -hound  into  her  lap  ;  Zilpha  sat  on  a 
low  seat  beside  her  mother  :  and  to  the  cheerful  voices 
that  floated  through  the  twilight  room,  the  music,  tender 
and  soft,  which  Edith's  fingers  awakened,  formed  a 
subdued  accompaniment,  as  she  played  and  listened. 

''  You  will  go  to  Newton  Lodge,  of  course,  when  you 
are  in  Scotland,"  said  Zilpha,  inquiringly. 

"  You  must  certainly  do  that,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Irvine. 

*'  At  the  risk  of  having  our  motives  impugned,  mother  ?" 
asked  Lawrence.  "  Your  old  grand-uncle  will,  perhaps, 
think  the  American  nephew  and  niece  are  coming  to  make 
his  acquaintance,  with  an  eye  to  the  estate  hei'll  be  com- 
pelled to  leave  to  somebody  before  long.  Isn't  he  very 
old  ?" 

"  Very ;  but  we  have  no  reason   to  suppose  we'll  get 


FOREGROUND  AXD  BACKGROUND.         15 

any  of  it  under  any  circumstances ;  there  are  enough  of 
Scotch  kith  and  kin  to  take  precedence  of  us.  So  I  don't 
think  you  need  let  the  fear  of  the  old  gentleman's  sus- 
picions keep  you  from  seeing  this  ancient  family  home." 

After  the  interruption  of  tea,  the  subject  of  the  prospec- 
tive tour  was  again  under  discussion,  and  the  time  of  the 
departure  of  Lawrence  and  his  sister  finally  fixed  at  a 
month  from  that  period.  The  March  winds  howled  and 
fretted  without,  only  to  add  more  sweetness  to  the  din 
of  cheerful  voices  within.  Mrs.  Irvine's  face, — as  she 
sat  where  the  ruddy  glow  of  the  grate,  and  the  light  from 
the  shaded  lamp  mingled  upon  it,  might  have  seemed  to 
owe  to  them  something  of  the  peculiar  expression  of 
beautiful  cheeriness  that  irradiated  it.  But  had  the  gleam 
from  the  hearth  been  wanting,  and  had  only  a  dim  rush- 
light been  shining  over  the  needles  with  which  she  plied 
her  light  task,  the  room  would  have  gained  brightness 
from  her  countenance,  for  it  was  pre-eminently  one  of 
those, — 

*'  That  make  a  sunshine  in  the  shady  place." 

Her  brown  hair,  and,  at  her  age,  unusual  youthfulness  of 
complexion, — fine  hazel  eyes,  full  of  changing  beauty, — 
irregular,  yet  singularly  expressive  features,  were  subjects 
for  constant  and  loving  compliment  from  her  children. 
Yet  she  was  not  beautiful,  in  the  common  acceptation  of 
the  term.    But  the  all-embracing  kindliness  that  looked  out 


16  '  SILVERWOOD. 

through  her  clear  eyes, — ^the  heart  welcome  that  expressed 
itself,  as  no  words  were  subtle  enough  to  do,  in  her  smile, 
— ^the  ready  sympathy  that  was  like  an  atmosphere, 
thoroughly  pervading  all  she  said  or  did, — the  delicate 
considerateness  that  marked  her  every  action, — her  abso- 
lute devotion  to  the  happiness  of  others,  in  which  alone 
her  own  appeared  to  consist, — all  these  charms  of  the  out- 
er and  inner  life,  combined  to  form  a  character  of  rare  and 
exceeding  loveliness.  Like  the  old  English  Bishop  of 
Litchfield,  her  motto  was,  "  Serve  God  and  be  cheerful." 

Lawrence  was  like  his  mother,  personally  ;  but  there 
was  about  him  a  steady  gravity,  and  a  quiet  reserve  of 
manner  to  which  she  was  a  stranger.  The  auburn  hair, 
inclining  to  wavyness,  and  the  fair  complexion,  might 
have  imparted  a  feminine  aspect  to  his  face  ;  but  on  the 
contrary,  it  was  one  of  peculiar  manliness.  The  gaze  of 
the  eyes  was  grave  and  settled, — the  cut  of  the  mouth 
indicated  strong  decision,  and  about  his  whole  appearance 
there  was  a  winning  dignity, — a  gentle  repose,  which, 
while  it  never  could  repel,  would  seem,  at  first  sight,  to  for- 
bid familiar  approach. 

There  was  something  very  beautiful  in  his  manner 
towards  his  mother.  He  loved  to  choose  his  seat  near 
her ;  he  addressed  to  her  the  most  of  his  conversation  ;  he 
anticipated  her  minute  wants, — the  stool  for  her  feet, — 
the  cushion  for  her  head, — the  books  she  liked  best  near 
her, — the  first  flower  of  Spring, — the  first  tinged  leaf  of 


FOEEGEOUND  AND  BACKGEOUND.         17 

Autumn  :  there  was  no  limit  to  the  unohstrusive  manifes- 
tations of  his  thoughtful  love.  He  never  overlooked  her 
presence  in  a  room  ;  and  many  a  time  would  he  leave 
the  group  of  interested  talkers,  if  he  chanced  to  observe 
her  sitting  apart,  and  address  himself  to  her  entertain- 
ment. His  attentions  were  more  than  the  dictates  of  filial 
devotion, — more  than  the  simple  homage  of  graceful  youth 
to  riper  age.  Had  she  been  a  young  beauty,  whose  fascina- 
tions had  enthralled  him,  there  could  not  have  been  a 
more  delicate  mingling  of  what  might  be  termed  the  chiv- 
alry of  the  heart  with  the  tenderness  of  his  love.  The 
language  of  look  and  action  was, — "  others  may  do  much 
for  me, — but  no  suffering  in  my  behalf, — no  ministra- 
tions,— no  devotedness,  can  be  like  a  mother's  I"  And  as 
he  now  sat  with  his  arm  over  the  back  of  her  chair,  talk- 
ing with  her  of  his  plans  and  prospects,  and  the  eyes  of 
each  strayed  to  the  circle  about  the  table,  animatedly  dis- 
cussing what  particular  thing  they  w^ould  like  best  to 
have  brought  them  from  abroad, — the  gaze  of  the  mother 
and  son  was  simultaneously  raised  to  the  grim  canvas  on 
the  wall,  with  an  inward  ''  thank  Grod,"  that,  as  yet,  the 
home-picture  was  shadowless. 


n. 


^t  Stimir  Best. 


It  was  less  than  a  fortnight  after  this  that  Lawrence 
entered  the  breakfast-room  with  the  morning  papers  in 
his  hand  :  there  was  no  one  there  but  Zilpha. 

"  My  dear  sister,"  he  began,  in  so  grave  a  tone  that 
she  looked  up  from  her  page  to  see  his  face,  "  I've  discov- 
ered some  unpleasant  news, — something  it  v/ill  grieve 
you  greatly  to  hear." 

"What?"  she  asked,  coming  up  to  him,  and  looking 
over  the  paper  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed. 

"  Something  that  will  be  very  unwelcome  to  us  all,  and 
that  will  put  an  end  to  all  the  anticipations  you  have 
been  so  unselfish  as  to  have  indulged  for  Edith  and 
me." 

"  What  is  it  ?  tell  me  at  once  ;  I  can't  bear  suspense." 

"  Our  projected  trip  must  be  given  up, — "  ' 

"  Griven  up, — and  you  so  nearly  ready  to  start  ?  Why, 
what's  the  matter  ?" 

Lawrence  answered  her  question  by  pointing  to  a  para- 


20  SILVERWOOD. 

graph  in  the  paper.     She  ran  her  eye  hurriedly  over  it, 

and  then  with  an  exclamation  of  astonishment,  sank  into 

a  seat  beside  him. 

"  You  see  that  puts  an  extinguisher  at  once  upon  our 

plans,"  said   Lawrence.     ''  It  would  be  a  comparatively 

insignificant  affair,  if  this  were  the  only  consequence  of 

it." 

"  And  you  think  there  can  be  no  doubt  about  it  ?" 

"  None  ;  here  is  a  notice  of  it  in  this  other  paper." 

Zilpha  took  the  sheet  he  had  lifted,  as  if,  without  farther 
confirmation,  she  was  not  content  to  believe  what  her  eyes 
had  already  read. 

"  Broken  I — the  S Eank  broken  I"  she  exclaimed, 

still  half  incredulously.  "  What  a  misfortune  !  How 
much  of  our  income  does  it  sweep  away, — if  indeed  it  be 
really  gone  ?" 

''  Of  that  we  may  rest  assured.  As  to  our  income,  I 
suppose  it  robs  us  of  more  than  one  half — " 

"And  mother — " 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  tender  point,"  said  Lawrence,  as  he 
rose,  and  walked  back  and  forth  with  a  rapid  step ;  "it 
will  grieve  her  so,  for  our  sakes.  It  may  circumscribe 
her  comfort  somewhat,  and  that's  something  I  can't  think 
of  calmly.  Yet  no,  it  shan't  be ;  these  hands  will  prevent 
that." 

"  I  dare  say  she  will  be  more  vexed  at  the  disappoint- 
ment it  will  occasion  Edith  and  you  than  at  anything. 


THE  STIRRED  NEST.  21 

What  a  pity  !  Edith's  heart  was  so  set  upon  this  sum- 
mer's travel." 

"  I  cannot  help  blaming  Mr.  Bryson  in  some  measure," 
resumed  Lawrence,  as  he  seated  himself,  and  again  re- 
turned to  the  paper. 

*'  How  can  he  have  had  any  agency  in  the  matter  ?" 
asked  Zilpha. 

"  None  directly  :  but  he  holds  our  business  affairs  in  his 
hands,  and  as  a  great  merchant,  he  ought  to  know  what 
stocks  were  unsafe,  so  as  to  have  given  us  time  to  have 
had  our  investments  withdrawn.  Not  three  months  ago 
I  heard  suspicions  as  to  the  soundness  of  this  Bank, 
and  wrote  to  Mr.  Bryson.  His  assurances  quieted  me.  But 
it  is  all  done  now,  and  regrets  are  useless,  as  we  always 
say,  though  we  will  still  go  on  to  utter  them." 

The  breakfast  passed  from  the  table  almost  untouched 
that  morning,  such  was  the  chagrin  felt  for  the  time  at 
the  news  which  Lawrence  communicated ;  yet  upon  the 
whole,  Mrs.  Irvine  bore  it  very  bravely, — so  much  so 
indeed,  that  her  son  regarded  her  with  a  new  admiration. 
As  Zilpha  had  supposed,  her  keenest  present  regi-et  was 
the  disappointment  of  her  children  in  the  matter  of  the 
tour,  which  Lawrence  did  not  fail  to  represent  as  nothing 
of  consequence. 

"  There  is  a  wisdom  in  this  dispensation,"  said  Mrs. 
Irvine,  after  she  had  been  trying  silently  to  familiarize 
her  mind  with  the  reality  of  the  loss, — *'  which,  as  yet,  we 


22  SILVERWOOD. 

cannot  see.  We  were  too  comfortable  in  our  nest ;  we 
needed  to  have  it  stirred  ;  we  needed  to  have  a  thorn  put 
in  it  to  keep  us  from  nestling  there  too  satisfiedly."         ^ 

"  Not  in  it,  dear  mother,"  interrupted  Lawrence  ;  ''  say 
only  that  a  portion  of  its  down  is  torn  away." 

*'  Ah  I  you  are  right,  my  son,  and  so  long  as  any  trials 
we  may  be  called  to  endure,  are  outside  of  our  home-nest, 
we  scarcely  ought  to  rate  them  as  trials.  Our  heavenly 
Father  has  only  '  fluttered '  over  it,  to  teach  us  how  to 
use  the  weak  wings  of  our  faith.  And  even  if  he  should 
'  take  us  and  bear  us  '  forth  for  untried  flights,  we  should 
not  fear  ;  if  he  sees  our  strength  fail,  he  will  spread  be- 
neath us  the  wings  of  his  everlasting  love." 

"  But  mother,"  broke  in  Edith  quickly,  ''  you  don't 
really  mean  to  say  that  this  loss  may  lead  to  any  serious 
changes  ? — that  we  may  be  compelled  to  give  up  our 
beautiful  home  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no,  I  hope  not.  So  long  as  we  are  thus  comfort- 
ably provided  for,  we  do  wrong  to  look  upon  ourselves  as 
sufferers.  No  doubt  there  are  widows  and  fatherless 
children  whom  this  unfortunate  failure  will  leave  penni- 
less.    Let  us  think  of  them,  and  be  thankful." 

"  Spoken  just  like  you,  dear  mother,"  said  Lawrence, 
affectionately,  "  searching  first  of  all  for  causes  of  grati- 
tude, to  be  the  more  strengthened  to  bear  your  losses." 

"  I  dont  pretend  to  be  such  a  stoic,"  replied  his  mother, 
''  as  not  to  regret  this  loss,  particularly  as  it  interferes  so 


THE  STIRRED  NEST.  23 

sadly  ^rith  your  plans  :  but  compared  with  what  multi- 
tudes are  called  to  bear,  it  is  a  mere  nothing.  While  I 
have  you  all  with  me," — and  Mrs.  Irvine  looked  round  upon 
the  circle  with  a  sudden  glistening  of  the  eye  that  always 
accompanied  her  quick  emotions, — "  I  am  surely  rich  in 
the  truest  sense  of  the  word." 

"And  after  all,"  said  Zilpha,  "  there  is  no  loss  so  light 
as  the  loss  of  money, — " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  interrupted  Edith.  "  Pover- 
ty and  dependance  are  a  rather  undesirable  pair  of  ac- 
quaintances,— " 

''  Yes,"  said  Lawrence,  smiling,  "  unless,  in  regard  to 
the  first,  like  Socrates  in  the  fair,  you  can  say,  '  "X^Hiat  a 
sight  of  things  do  I  not  want !'  " 

"  And  if  G-od's  discipline  should  require  you  to  form 
such  acquaintanceships — " 

"  But  mother,  in  this  instance,  it  is  through  the  mis- 
management or  roguery  of  men  that  we  suffer,"  persisted 
Edith. 

"  They  are  only  the  instruments  in  a  higher  hand,  my 
dear.  This  thing  of  resting  upon  second  causes  is  very 
unwise.  All  trial  is  more  easily  borne,  if  we  look  beyond 
the  immediate  occasion  of  it,  and  remember  who  arranges 
and  controls  the  minutest  incidents  of  our  lot.  My  old  au- 
thority, Charnock,  says,  that '  all  G-od's  providences  are  but 
his  touch  of  the  strings  of  this  great  instrument,  the  world ; 
and  if  we  stay  for  fuller  touches,  they  will  be  like  David's 


24  SILVERWOOD. 

harp  to  us,' — chasing  the  evil  spirit  of  douht  away.'  We 
must  not  forget  that  there  is  a  lesson  for  us  wrapped  up 
in  every  discipline  ;  and  of  all  comforting  doctrines,  I  feel 
one  of  the  most  comforting  to  he,  a  firm  faith  in  the  par- 
ticular and  over-ruling  providence  of  God." 

''  Mother,"  said  Lawrence,  as  they  sat  again  in  the 
twilight,  with  the  same  warm  fire-glow  brightening  up  all 
the  objects  around  them,  "  I  begin  not  quite  so  much  to 
need  the  factitious  background  I  was  speaking  of  not  long 
ago," — and  he  pointed  to  the  picture  on  the  wall. 

"You  be  gin, "^^  repeated  his  mother,  questioningly  ; 
"  have  you  a  prophetic  prescience  for  future  shadows  ?" 


Ill 


%  Mmt  f  ost. 


The  high  March  winds  roared  among  the  elms  and 
poplars  that  surrounded  the  beautiful  home  of  the  Irvines ; 
fierce  gusts  rent  limbs  and  twigs,  and  flung  them  with 
angry  violence  upon  the  ground,  or  smote  them  against 
the  windows  ;  and  the  dry  leaves  that  had  outbraved  all 
the  winter's  efforts  to  wrench  them  away,  were  tossing 
hither  and  thither  in  wild  confusion  across  the  midnight 
sky. 

Lawrence  raised  his  head  to  listen.  He  had  been  sud- 
denly roused  from  sound  sleep  with  the  impression  upon 
his  ear  that  he  had  heard  his  own  name  spoken.  But  the 
branches  athwart  his  window  creaked  and  groaned,  and 
the  wind  howled  like  a  human  thing  in  pain  ;  other  noises 
there  seemed  to  be  none.  He  looked  toward  the  window. 
A  glare  as  of  fire-light  was  over  the  sky.     He  started  up, 

under  the  belief  that  a  conflagration  was  raging  in  B , 

a  mile  distant. 

"  Fire  !"     There  was  no  doubt  as  to  the  voice  now. 


26  SILVERWOOD. 

"  James !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  thought  he  recognized 
the  servant's  voice,  ''  where  is  it  ? — what  is  it  ?" 

"  The  back  building  is  all  in  a  blaze,  sir  ;  the  women 
have  been  helping  me  throw  on  a  few  buckets  of  water  ; 
but  that  way  of  working  is  no  use, — quick,  sir, — fire ! 
fire  I" 

But  it  was  in  vain  he  tried  to  freight  the  air  with  the 
message  he  would  have  it  bear  to  the  sleeping  town.  The 
wind  outvoiced  him,  and  drowned  his  alarms  with  its 
wilder  shriekings.  A  very  few  moments  sufficed  to  bring 
Lawrence  to  the  lower  part  of  the  house.  He  opened  the 
door  connecting  the  hall  with  the  back  building,  but  the 
volumes  of  stifling  smoke  intermingled  with  flame,  com- 
pelled him  to  close  it  instantly.  He  flew  to  rouse  the 
family  who  yet  slept  unconscious  of  the  neighborhood  of 

such  danger.     James  was  galloping  to  B ,  to  spread 

the  alarm. 

Consternation  was  depicted  upon  the  faces  that  started 
up  to  meet  Lawrence's  summons.  The  children  could 
not  comprehend  just  at  once,  why  they  were  snatched  up 
so  hurriedly,  and  in  their  fright  they  made  the  house  ring 
with  their  cries.  Mrs.  Irvine  was  a  woman  of  remarkable 
presence  of  mind.  No  emergencies,  however  startling, 
confused  her  so  entirely  as  to  render  her  helpless  :  and 
though  she  trembled  with  fear,  she  was  able  at  once  to 
give  assistance  in  the  removal  of  articles  of  value  from  the 
house.     Zilpha  had  still  steadier  nerves :  danger  seemed 


A  HOME  LOST.  27 

to  have  the  effect  of  concentrating  her  faculties, — of 
making  her  mental  workings  clearer  even  than  usual.  In 
this  absence  of  all  tremulousness  and  perturbation,  and 
pretty  womanly  weakness, — in  the  ability  to  fulfill  with 
straightforwardness  the  demands  of  the  moment's  exigen- 
cy, without  allowing  herself  to  be  occupied  in  the  slightest 
degree  with  her  own  particular  feelings, — she  might  have 
appeared  to  those  who  saw  her  only  under  these  circum- 
stances, too  rigid, — too  self-contained.  They  would  judge 
differently,  if  they  looked  again,  when  the  emergency  had 
passed  and  the  call  for  self-control  was  relaxed.  She  flew 
hither  and  thither, — clearing  out  presses, — tumbling  the 
contents  of  drawers  into  the  sheets  she  had  stripped  from 
the  beds,  and  flinging  them  from  the  windows, — singling 
out  what  they  would  least  like  to  part  with, — in  short, 
deciding  and  acting  with  as  much  clearness  as  could  have 
been  vouchsafed  by  the  most  leisurely  deliberation. 

The  case  was  different  with  Edith.  She  was  trembling 
like  an  aspen  leaf,  and  so  weak  from  terror,  that,  even 
what  she  had  sufficient  composure  for,  her  physical 
powers  could  not  accomplish.  Zilpha  had  already  inter- 
cepted her  attempts  to  throw  a  handsome  dressing-box 
from  an  upper  window ;  and,  as  she  rushed  past  Edith, 
some  minutes  after,  on  the  stairway,  she  discovered  that 
in  the  skirt  of  her  dress,  which  she  had  caught  up  about 
her,  she  held  a  quantity  of  common  clothing  ;  but  more 
conspicuous  were   innumerable  pairs  of  old  shoes.     She 


28  SILVERWOOD. 

could  scarcely  suppress  a  disposition  to  smile,  as  she 
begged  her  to  expend  her  efforts  on  something  more 
valuable. 

Lawrence  had  been  mounted  upon  the  roof  of  the 
main  building, — buckets  of  water  had  been  passed  un- 
remittingly to  him,  by  the  few  people  who  had  assem- 
bled ;  and  his  exertions  had  been  prodigious  to  protect  it 
from  the  flames.  Several  times  had  he  already  cut  away 
burning  shingles  ;  but  at  length  he  relinquished  the 
hatchet,  as  the  desired  aid  came.  The  leaping  flames 
were  roaring  close  beside  him  ;  the  leathern  pipe  was 
put  into  his  hands  ;  and  in  his  perilous  situation  he 
stood  guiding  the  stream  of  water.  The  fire  flashed, 
and  wreathed  itself  above  his  head.  His  position  be- 
came too  dangerous.  He  slipped — fell ;  and,  to  the  eyes 
of  the  S])ectators  below,  seemed  lost  in  the  belching 
flames ;  but  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  seen  to  descend 
through  the  trap-door.  His  presence  above  could  be  of 
no  further  use. 

"  Mother  ! — Zilpha  I — this  will  never  do  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  encountered  them  carrying  out  a  sofa. 
"  Better  everything  should  burn,  than  that  you  should 
kill  yourselves  ;"  and  he  compelled  them  to  set  down 
their  burden.  "  Come,  all — all  of  you  away.  Edith, 
don't  attempt  to  lift  that  mirror  ;  it's  entirely  too 
heavy  for  you.  Here  stands  '  Ariadne'  on  her  bracket 
yet.     T  wonder  you  did  not  think  of  our  only  piece  of 


A  HOME  LOST.  29 

Parian.     There,  take   it;    but  no   time    for  tears  now, 
Edith." 

He  reached  down  the  statuette,  confiding  it  to  his 
sister's  care.  ''  But  where  are  Eunice  and  Josepha  ?" 
he  asked,  looking  round  anxiously  for  them.  ''  I  see 
them  nowhere." 

''  Where  ? — where  ?" — cried  Mrs.  Irvine,  breathlessly, 
as  she  attempted  to  penetrate  through  the  smoke  into 
one  of  the  rooms  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  passage ; 
but   Lawrence  held  her  back. 

"  Be  calm,  dear  mother  ;  I  will  search  for  them. 
They're   safe,  somewhere,  I  trust." 

"  The  children  I — the  children  !  Eunice  ! — Josepha  I  " 
were  now  the   words    on  every  tongue. 

"  I  saw  Eunice  carrying  out  an  armful  of  your  books, 
but  a  little  while  ago,"  exclaimed  Zilpha.  ''  She  may 
have  returned  to  the  library  for  more.  Oh  !  see — see, 
Lawrence  ! — the  door  is  open  ;  the  room  is  full  of  smoke  ; 
you'll  be  stifled !" 

"  At  any  risk,  I  must  see  if  she  is  there  ;"  and  he 
put  aside  the  hand  that  would  have  detained  him. 

He  had  scarcely  penetrated  into  the  rolling  cloud, 
when  Edith's  voice  was  heard  on  the  piazza,  ''  Mother, — 
Lawrence  !  here  they  are  !" 

And  there  indeed  they  were,  at  the  far  library  window, 
using  the  utmost  of  their  little  endeavors  to  hoist  out  a 
pretty  writing-stand  with  a  desk  attached, — their  mother's 


80  SILVERWOOD. 

peculiar  property.  Their  brother  and  half  a  dozen  others 
flew  to  their  aid  and  rescue  ;  and  as  they  were  lifted  out 
into  the  arms  that  were  opened  to  receive  them,  Eunice 
exclaimed  with  a  burst  of  tears, — "  "We  thought  you 
could'nt  do  without  that,  mother  ;  we  knew  you  kept 
father's  letters  there  !" 

"  Now  promise  me,"  begged  Lawrence,  after  he  had 
removed  them  all  to  a  summer  seat  round  the  base  of  an 
old  elm  on  the  lawn, — "  promise  me  that  you  will  be 
content  to  stay  at  this  safe  distance.  You  can  do 
nothing  more,  except  to  injure  yourselves  by  over- 
exertion." 

''  Well  I — we'll  do  as  you  wish  ;  but  you, — I'm  afraid 
your're  forgetting  to  take  any  care  of  yourself, — "  and 
his  mother  passed  her  hand  over  his  shoulders. 

"  Why,  you  are  thoroughly  wet  now,  and  this  chilly 
air, — "  but  he  was  gone  without  waiting  for  her  charges, 
and  was  soon  lost  amid  the  surging  crowd. 

The  flames  burst  from  one  of  the  parlor  windows,  as  he 
sprang  up  the  steps  of  the  piazza ;  and  as  he  attempted  to 
pass  through  the  hall  to  see  if  anything  farther  could  be 
done  towards  saving  the  library,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
the  Count  Ugolino's  stern  features,  as,  with  a  fearful  splen- 
dor, the  leaping  and  lurid  flames  irradiated  the  dark  can- 
vas ;  and  even  in  the  midst  of  his  hurry  and  excitement, 
his  mind  delayed  for  one  instant,  or  rather  the  contrast 
sprang  up  as  he  gazed,  and  he    needed  not  to  delay, — 


A  HOME  LOST.  3l 

between  the  soft  flush  of  the  twilight  scene  he  recalled, 
and  the  flashing,  pitiless  blaze  that  was  shrivelling  up  his 
home-picture.  It  was  too  late  to  save  it ;  as  he  looked,  it 
fell.  ^'  Let  it  go  I"  he  inwardly  sighed  :  "  I  shall  need  no 
such  shadow  now  !" 

*'  Has  nobody  seen  Fiddle  ?"  asked  Josepha,  after  they 
had  kept  their  new  post  of  observation  but  a  few  minutes. 
''  Oh  !  mother,  let  me  go  and  beg  somebody  to  hunt  for 
her  :  she  must  not,  she  shall  not  be  burnt ;  poor  Fidele  !" 
and  afresh  the  child  poured  forth  the  lamentations  she 
had  been  indulging  in,  as  she  recounted  to  Eunice  the 
various  cherished  treasures  so  remorselessly  swept  away. 
But  her  tears  for  the  missing  pet  were  not  permitted  to 
flow  long.  A  boy  was  seen  coming  towards  them  over 
the  illuminated  lawn.  "  Mr.  Irvine  told  me  to  bring  this 
dog  to  one  of  you  ladies,"  he  called  out  as  soon  as  he  came 
within  speaking  distance  ;  ''  it's  scared  out  of  its  wits 
'most."  Josepha  sprang  forward  to  claim  Fidele  with  a 
cry  of  joy,  and  child-like  she  was  for  the  moment 
consoled. 

No  exertions  could  save  the  house ;  and  the  group  on 
the  lawn,  with  dismay,  saw  the  roof  fall  in — heard  the 
timbers  crash — and  watched,  high  above  all,  the  mad 
flames  triumph  over  what  had  been  to  them  the  dearest 
spot  on  earth.  Few  words  escaped  them,  as  they  crowded 
shiveringly  together,  with  their  moistened  eyes  fixed  on 
their  burning  home.     A  half  suppressed  sob — a  stifled  ex- 


82  SILVERWOOD. 

clamation — a  low  wail  from  one  of  the  children ; — ^this  was 
at  first  all.  At  length  the  grey  light  of  the  morning 
began  to  streak  the  east — the  wild  winds  lulled — the 
flames  had  exhausted  their  fury,  and  were  subsiding — the 
crowd  had  drawn  off,  and  desolate  indeed  looked  the  neat, 
trim  lawn  of  yesterday,  with  its  trampled  shrubbery,  and 
the  just  freshening  grass  scattered  over  with  household  ar- 
ticles and  furniture,  in  the  greatest  conceivable  disorder. 

Lawrence  was  in  the  midst  of  the  group  once  more, — 
weary  with  his  night's  exertion :  he  had  managed  to  find 
a  dry  coat,  to  his  mother's  satisfaction  ;  and,  as  he  sat 
down  for  a  little  rest,  Mrs.  Irvine's  head  sank  for  a  mo- 
ment upon  the  arm  he  was  about  to  pass  around  her. 

"  And  what  do  you  think — what  do  you  say  now,  dear 
mother  ?"  he  asked,  tenderly. 

''What  I  said  and  believed  in  our  prosperity,  I  must 
say  still,  though  it  be  now  through  tears — '  The  Lord  will 
provide.'  It  is  stern  teaching  this,  but  we  will  try  and 
study  the  lesson  to  the  end." 

"  And  what  is  to  become  of  us,  mother  ?"  sobbed  Edith 
— "  where  shall  we  go  ?" 

"  We  are  not  left  wholly  destitute — we  have  a  home 
yet — that  is  something  to  be  thankful  for." 

"  You  mean  the  remnant  of  the  old  Virginia  estate  my 
father  left  to  me — Silverwood  ?  Yes,  yes,  as  lord  of  the 
manor,"  said  Lawrence,  trying  to  smile — "  let  me  wel- 
come you  all  to  it." 


A  HOME  LOST.  B3 

^^  I  mean  Silverwood — " 

^'  That  may  serve  as  a  place  of  shelter,"  interrupted 
Edith  ;  ^'  but  a  home  is  another  thing." 

*'  It  was  your  father's  home — " 

"  Yes,  mother,"  broke  in  Eunice,  plaintively  ;  ^^  but  he 
died  there — " 

*'  And  in  sight  of  it  lies  buried,"  said  Mrs.  Irvine,  with 
an  unsteady  voice. 

''  Then  don't  let  us  go  there,"  pleaded  Josepha,  laying 
her  wet  cheek  eoaxingly  against  her  mother's, 

"  Do  let  us  go,  Sepha,"  said  Zilpha's  clear,  hopeful 
tones  ;  '*  yes,  let  us  go  to  Silverwood,  mother.  We  will 
love  it  all  the  better  because  our  father  stepped  from  it 
into  heaven." 


2 


IV. 

Six  months  had  passed  away  since  the  occurrence  of 
the  events  of  the  last  page  ;  and  now,  at  the  close  of  an 
Octoher  evening,  Zilpha  sat  on  a  broken  step  of  the  old 
porch  at  Silverwood. 

'^  And  so  this  is  home — home  /"  The  word  was  re- 
peated with  a  sort  of  incredulous  emphasis,  and  a  sigh 
escaped  her  lips  as  she  spoke. 

"  Home  ? — yes — do  you  think  you  can  love  it  as  such, 
Zilpha  ?" 

"  Ah,  are  you  there,  Cousin  Bryant  ?  I  thought  I  was 
alone." 

*'  So  I  opined,  or  you  would  have  been  more  chary  of 
your  sigh.  You  have  been  so  careful  to  appear  happy 
and  cheerful,  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  tell  whether 
you  have  been  counterfeiting  or  not.  Confess  the  truth 
candidly,  now.  Do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  content 
yourself  here,  without  regretful  pinings  for  what  is  lost 
and  left  behind  ?"  '-...„.•  -     . 


36  SILVERWOOD. 

"  It  would  be  ungrateful  to  be  otherwise  than  content. 
My  present  feeling  is  one  of  intense  thankfulness  that, 
after  our  homeless  sojourn  among  our  various  friends 
during  the  summer,  we  are  all  gathered  together  again 
under  one  roof,  and  that  roof  our  own.  If  only  my 
fears  for  Lawrence  were  allayed,  I  think  I  could  be  posi- 
tively happy  here.  But  the  over-exertion  of  that  fatal 
night  of  the  fire — the  wetting  and  the  cold  ; — ah  !  Bryant, 
you  see  how  changed  he  is — how  his  elasticity  is  gone — 
how  he  droops  ;  I  tremble  for  him,"  and  something  like  a 
tear  glistened  in  Zilpha's  eye,  which  she  turned  away  her 
face  to  hide. 

"  It  is  not  like  you,  Zilpha,  to  despond,"  said  Bryant, 
soothingly ;  "  you  are  always  so  brave-hearted.  I  confess 
I  was  hardly  prepared,  on  my  arrival  yesterday,  for  so 
much  change  in  Lawrence ;  but  we  will  be  hopeful  and 
trustful  of  God's  unfailing  goodness.  "We  have  only  now 
to  await  the  opinion  of  the  physicians  to  whom  his  case 
has  been  referred  ; — and,  as  he  says  himself,  that  he  has 
been  retrograding  since  he  has  been  from  under  their  care, 
we  may  suppose  that  their  decision  will  be  for  his  trial 
of  a  milder  climate  during  the  coming  winter.  So,  if  they 
say  '  Southward,  ho  !'  the  sooner  he  goes,  the  better." 

*'  And  alone  ? — with  his  tender,  gentle  nature — so  much 
of  an  invalid,  too — standing  in  need  of  such  care  and 
sympathy  as  he  does  ?  It  seems  to  me  impossible  that  he 
should  go,  if  it  must  be  alone." 


A  HOME   FOUND.    ^  37 

"  He  need  not — you  can  go  with  him — " 

*'  Yes.  I  cannot  imagine  a  more  proper  companion. 
You  are  equable  in  your  temperament — conscientiously 
cheerful, — a  matter  of  the  greatest  moment  for  an  invalid, 
— disposed  to  look  at  things  in  their  best  aspect,  and  pos- 
sessed, as  you  must  know,  of  a  mind  more  self-poised  than 
falls  to  the  lot  of  many  of  your  sex." 

"  You  exaggerate  my  possessions  greatly,  Bryant." 

"  Not  a  whit — not  a  whit — " 

"  But—but—" 

"  All !  I  see  the  difficulty.  You  are  thinking  of  the 
wherewithal  to  accomplish  this.  Well,  Mr.  Bryson  holds 
some  of  your  mother's  money,  which  he  may  not  have  yet 
invested — the  proceeds   of  the   sale  of  the  old  place  at 

B .     As  to  that  matter,  however,  please  to  remember 

how  my  obligations  to  Cousin  Mary  must  press  upon  me, 
and  what  real  gratification  it  will  afford  me  to  make  some 
tangible  acknowledgment  of  them ;  for  though  I'm  only 
a  poor  parson,  I  happen  to  have  some  surplus  of  funds, 
which  cannot  be  so  well  employed  in  any  way,  as  in 
assisting  Lawrence,  my  foster-brother,  to  regain  his 
health." 

"  You  are  too  kind,  Bryant !"  exclaimed  Zilpha,  turn- 
ing her  beautiful  eyes,  full  of  grateful  feeling,  upon  him. 
*'  But  Lawrence  cannot  brook  dependance  :  I'm  afraid 
you  could  not  get  his  consent  to  your  arrangement." 


38  SILVEEWOOD 

**  Necessity  owns  no  law,  you  know." 

"  Ah  !  you  men  overleap  difficulties  at  one  bound,  that 
we  women  detail  out  to  ourselves  until  they  seem  wholly 
insurmountable.  In  this  new  and  untried  home,  among 
strangers,  think  how  sad  and  lonely  it  will  be  for  mother 
and  Edith." 

"  Yes,  lonely,  perhaps  ;  but,  I  trust,  not  so  sad  as  you 
imagine.  Let  but  my  cousin  Mary  believe  it  to  be  her 
duty  to  give  you  and  Lawrence  up  for  the  winter,  and 
she  will  submit  to  it  bravely.  Many  a  time  have  I  seen 
her,  when  you  were  too  young  to  observe, — for  you  know 
there  are  a  good  many  years  between  us,  Zilpha, — many  a 
time  have  I  seen  her  pass  through  a  trying  ordeal  with  as 
uncomplaining  a  cheerfulness  as  if  it  were  really  a  plea- 
sure to  her,  when  I  was  sure  that  her  sensitive  spirit  was 
enduring  a  species  of  martyrdom.  Her  own  personal 
feelings  are  always  the  last  things  she  takes  into  con- 
sideration." 

"  Yes — I  have  often  heard  her  say  that  she  long  since 
had  ceased  to  ask  herself  what  she  liked  to  do — but  what 
was  it  her  duty  to  do." 

"  Then  set  yourself  at  rest  on  that  point.  As  to  Edith, 
only  get  her  strong  will  and  sound  judgment  persuaded  to 
the  mastery  of  her  feelings,  and  the  difficulty  there  is 
over." 

"  But  Lawrence  himself  will  be  hard  to  convince." 

"  Lawrence  is  as  passive  as  a  child.     His  high,  inde- 


A  HOME  FOtTND.  39 

pendent,  determined  nature  has  felt  the  subduing  effects 
of  long  continued  indisposition.  I  had  never  imagined  he 
would  become  so  plastic.  Have  you  not  noticed  this 
wonderful  change  ?" 

"  Ah  !  yes,  till  it  has  wrung  my  heart  sometimes.  It 
is  almost  too  touching  to  see  him,  on  whose  strength  we 
all  used  to  lean  so  much,  now  repose  himself  upon  us  with 
such  a  beautiful  trust.  Those  words — '  Passing  away  ! — 
passing  away  !'  will  keep  ringing  through  my  thoughts, 
till  often  their  echoes  almost  distract  me." 

"  Oh !  here  you  are^  sister — and  Cousin  Barry,  too. 
We've  been  hunting  you  all  over  the  house  and  garden. 
Just  come  and  see  the  tea-table,  if  it  doesn't  look  like  it 
used  to  at  home  ;"  and  so  saying,  Josepha  seized  Zilpha's 
hand,  while  Eunice  made  sure  of  Bryant's,  as  they  drew 
them  through  the  open  door  of  the  halL 

*^  We  hunted  and  hunted  among  the  packing-boxes," 
continued  Josepha,  '^  for  the  tea-bell,  to  ring  for  you,  for 
Daphne  said  she  couldn't  find  you.  But  it  didn't  turn  up, 
things  are  so  out^of  their  places  yet.  I  wonder  if  they'll 
ever  get  into  them  !" 

^'  And  we've  been  helping  Aunt  Rose  to  get  supper 
early,"  broke  in  Eunice,  '^  for  she  didn't  know  where 
things  were  as  well  as  Sepha  and  I ;  and  mother  said  we 
must  all  be  so  tired,  getting  matters  to  rights,  that  we 
needed  an  early  supper  to  rest  us ;  so,  come,  sister— 
come,  Cousin  Barry !" 


40  SILVERWOOD. 

It  was  not  dark  in  the  old  porch,  for  the  house  faced 
the  western  sky,  and  the  deep  amber  flush,  left  by  the 
sunken  sun,  still  lingered  brightly  above  the  line  of  moun- 
tain horizon.  It  had  not  seemed  dark  at  least,  until  the 
old  hall  door  creaked  shut  on  its  unused  and  rusty  hinges. 
Then  a  desolate  dimness — a  forlorn  and  melancholy  aspect 
settled  down,  like  the  dusk  shaken  from  the  wings  of 
night,  upon  the  deserted  porch ;  the  clematis  and  honey- 
suckle, whose  intertwining  branches  hung  drooping  for 
want  of  support,  swayed  mournfully  hither  and  thither  in 
the  growing  darkness ;  and  the  aspens,  whose  silvery 
foliage  had  given  name  to  this  once  pleasant  home,  rus- 
tled sadly,  as  the  evening  wind  sighed  through  the  frost» 
touched  leaves. 


V. 

ixts\)st. 

The  coolness  of  the  evening  without  made  a  fire 
inviting,  and  broad  and  bright  the  pile  of  hickory  blazed 
within  the  deep  recess  of  the  old  chimney-place,  as  the 
party  from  the  porch  entered  the  dining-room.  It  had 
been  many  a  day  since  those  dim  walls  had  reflected  back 
the  light  of  a  cheerful  hearth, — many  a  day  since  the  last 
dwellers  in  the  old  house  had  made  its  rooms  echo  to  the 
sound  of  happy  voices.  The  dark,  oaken  paneling,  extend- 
ing a  third  of  the  way  to  the  ceiling,  with  a  careful 
reference  to  the  protection  of  the  walls  from  mutilation  by 
chair-backs,  gave  a  somewhat  sombre  appearance  to  the 
room,  which  the  deep  green  of  the  painted  plaster  did  not 
help  to  relieve. 

Yet  an  air  of  cheery  comfort  had  been  imparted  to  the 
place,  which,  at  first  sight,  it  did  not  seem  capable  of  re- 
ceiving. The  bright  colored  carpet, — the  two  or  three 
lounging  chairs, — the  simple  divan  drawn  up  cosily  to  the 

2* 


42  SILVERWOOD. 

fire,  strewn  over  with  the  books  and  papers  which  Law- 
rence had  been  reading, — the  inviting  tea-table  with  its 
checked  crimson  cover,  that  so  prettily  set  off  the  fair  chi- 
na, and  above  all,  the  sparkling  radiance  of  the  hearth, 
served  effectually  to  dispel  the  gloomy  impressions  which 
its  untenanted  aspect  had  suggested. 

"  Doesn't  it  look  nice?"  exclaimed  the  little  cicerone  of 
the  occasion,  as  she  stood  with  the  door-knob  in  her  hand, 
surveying  the  scene  with  a  satisfaction  that  proved  her 
to  have  had  a  personal  concern  in  the  effect  she  calculated 
upon  its  producing.  /'  Cousin  Barry,  did  you  think,  when 
you  saw  it  full  of  packages  and  boxes  last  night,  that  we 
ever  could  make  it  look  so  much  like  our  old  dear  home  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  but  I  thought  you  could,  Sepha.  I  put  no 
limits  to  what  woman's  hands  and  taste  can  accomplish. 
But,  indeed,  dear  Cousin  Mary,"  continued  Bryant,  turning 
to  Mrs.  Irvine,  who  already  sat  at  the  waiter,  "indeed, 
this  is  very  home-like." 

"  Just  what  Lawrence  has  been  saying,"  replied  Mrs, 
Irvine,  without  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  cups  into  which 
she  was  busily  engaged  putting  the  sugar.  "  It  pleases 
me,  to  find  you  think  so  :  any  place  will  be  like  home  to 
me,  where  I  can  make  you  all  happy." 

"  Spoken  just  like  you.  Cousin  Mary  :  but  where's 
Edith?" 

"  Gone  to  prepare  something  tempting  for  my  supper," 
said  Lawrence,  rising  from  his   seat  before  the   fire,  and 


I 


FIRESIDE.  43 

laying  the  book  he  had  been  reading,  with  its  open  face 
upon  the  mantel.  '^  She  knows,  with  my  capricious  appe- 
tite, that  old  Aunt  Rose's  cookery  is  not  dainty  enough 
for  me." 

*'  I  don't  believe,  brother  Lawrie  !"  exclaimed  Josepha, 
who  felt  as  if  an  imputation  had  been  cast  upon  the  cu- 
linary skill  of  the  good-humored  black  cook, — "  I  don't 
believe  anything  but  a  nice  English  cook  would  do  for 
you^ 

*'  You  think  me  too  fastidious,  do  you,  Sepha  ?" 

"  '  Fastidious  ?  '  " 

^'  Don't  you  know  what  that  means  ?"  asked  Bryant, 
quizzically.  "  Why,  to  hold  up  a  glass  of  fair  water  between 
one's  eye  and  the  light,  before  drinking  it,  which,  by  the 
way,  the  Spanish  proverb  says  ought  never  to  be  done." 

"  That's  what  brother  Lawrie  always  does  :  he's  afraid 
of  drinking  bugs  !" 

'•  He  should  wear  a  cover  over  his  mouth,  like  the  Hin- 
doo fakirs,  and  have  all  his  drinks  strained  through  a 
sieve  of  fabulous  fineness.  And  don't  you  think  it  would 
be  advisable  to  provide  Aunt  Rose  with  a  pair  of  micro- 
scopic glasses,  so  that  she  may  be  able  to  detect  the 
invisible  animalcules  that  may  invade  the  domain  of  her 
pots  and  kettles  ?" 

"Brother  Lawrie's  own  gold  spectacles  would  do,"  said 
Josepha,  laughing. 

"  But  they  are  near-sighted  ones,  and  Aunt  Rose  will 
need  magnifiers."  ^  "^ 


44  SILVERWOOD. 

'  Lawrence  smiled  quietly  at  the  allusion  to  his  extreme 
daintiness,  as  they  all  took  their  seats  at  the  table ;  and 
Edith  soon  appeared  with  the  delicacy  wherewith  to  tempt 
the  invalid's  appetite.  Eunice  came,  too,  saying  that 
Zilpha  had  bidden  her  to  tell  them  not  to  wait  tea  for  her  : 
she  would  be  with  them  presently.  "Uncle  Felix  has 
brought  the  letters,  and  I  believe  she's  ^reading  them," 
the  little  girl  proceeded  to  say,  but  a  significant  look  from 
her  mother  prevented  her  going  on. 

"  I   thought  you  liked   cofTee,    Edith,"    said    Josepha, 

peering  into  her  sister's  cup,  which  had   been  scarcely 

touched,  with   a   look  of  disappointment ;   "I  told  Aunt 

Rose  how  particular  you  were  about   having  it  just  so; 

*  and  she'll  be  sure  to  ask  me  if  it  pleased  you." 

''  Assure  her  that  it  does,  then ;  it  could  hardly  be 
better  if  she  had  gone  to  France  to  learn  how  to 
make  it." 

"  But  you  don't  drink  it, — nor  eat  your  muffin  either. 
I  was  hoping  you'd  be  so  hungry,  and  think  everything  so 
nice." 

"  Perhaps  she  has  been  watching  the  sunset  from  that 
crazy  old  summer-house  in  the  garden,  ^epha  ;  and  sitting 
among  the  falling  autumn  leaves,  with  a  girdle  of  blue 
mountains  about  her,  and  the  evening  wind,  whispering  in 
her  ear,  the  tales  it  had  caught  up  in  the  far-away  gorges, 
may  have  made  her  grow  poetic  ;  so  let  her  alone,  for  fear 
you  spoil  the  sonnet  that  may  be  brewing  in  her  brain." 


FIRESIDE.  46 

Edith  felt  thankful  to  Bryant  for  withdrawing  the 
child's  attention ;  and  as  soon  as  the  tea  was  over,  she 
went  in  search  of  her  sister.  It  was  not  her  nature  to 
sit  quietly  waiting,  as  her  mother  could,  till  Zilpha  should 
make  her  appearance  ;  for  she  felt  sure  that  the  letters  so 
anxiously  looked  for,  yet  dreaded,  had  come. 

Daphne,  a  comely  negress,  with  great  golden  hoops  in 
her  ears,  had  removed  the  tea-things, — leaving  only  a 
nicely  prepared  tray  for  Zilpha, — and  the  group  drew  their 
chairs  again  around  the  glowing  hearth,  except  Lawrence, 
who,  according  to  his  invariable  habit,  paced  with  a  slow 
step  back  and  forth  through  the  room. 

His  mother's  loving  eye  would  follow  him,  as  he  walked 
from  her,  and  turn  away  again,  as  he  approached, — be- 
traying an  evident  unwillingness  that  he  should  be  aware 
how  much  he  was  the  object  of  her  solicitude. 

"  Did  I  hear  you  say  there  were  letters  to-night  ?"  he 
asked,  stopping  in  his  walk,  and  turning  to  his  sisters, 
who  had,  a  little  before,  taken  their  seats  at  the  fire, 
t    *'Yes,"  was   Zilpha's  somewhat  hesitating    reply;   "I 
have  given  them  to  mother  to  read." 

"  Any  from  Dr.  Warder  ?  I  see  you  think  me  nervous 
about  hearing,  yet  you  know  I  am  not  easily  discom- 
posed." Mrs.  Irvine  put  into  his  hand  the  one  she  had 
just  finished.  He  ran  his  eye  over  it  without  a  change  of 
coaintenance,  while  Edith  watched  his  face  with  ill-dis- 
guised sinxiety.     Calmly  he  folded  it  up, — read  another, — 


40  SILVERWOOD. 

and  then,  without  speaking,  or  seeming  to  be  conscious 
of  the  looks  of  inquiry,  as  to  the  effect  of  their  contents, 
which  were  bent  upon  him,  resumed  his  measured  walk 
again. 

''  Sepha,"  he  said  at  length,  as  he  sat  down  and  lifted 
the  little  sleepyhead  from  Zilpha's  lap,  "your  eyes  are 
*  gathering  straws '  I  see  ;  so  call  the  servants,  and 
Bryant,  you  be  our  household  priest  again  to-night." 

Prayers  were  over,  the  door  had  shut  upon  the  retreating 
children,  and  the  diminished  circle  drew  closer  together 
over  the  ruddy  coals.  No  one  spoke  for  a  while.  There 
was  but  one  th^jught  on  the  minds  of  all,  and  that  each 
waited  for  the  other  to  broach. 

Lawrence  was  the  first  to  break  silence. 

"  I  confess  myself  a  little  startled,  mother  dear,  by  the 
tenor  of  Dr.  Warder's  letter.  Dr.  Martin's  too,  amounts 
to  about  the  same  thing.  Oh !  this  mistaken  kindness  of 
sending  invalids  away  from  home  !" 

"  Not  mistaken  in  j^our  case,  I  trust,  my  son,"  said  his 
mother,  in  her  hopeful  way,  as  she  fondly  stroked  back 
the  hair  from  his  pale  forehead  :  "  think  what  wonders 
a  winter  in  Santa  Cruz  once  effected  for  your  Uncle 
Walter." 

"  And  Ronaldson, — you  remember  him  ?"  interposed 
Bryant. 

"  Very  well :  he  was  in  the  class  above  us  at  college." 

"  Well,  you  know  he  looked  like  a  walking  ghost  then  ; 


FIKESIDE.  '  47 

but,  after  leaving  N ,  his  health   utterly  failed.     He 

was  ordered  to  the  West  Indies, — spent  a  winter  there, 
and  is  now  a  new  man." 

*'  And  our  friend  Williams,  he  died  at  Tampa  Bay."      1 

"  Yes ;  hut  his  case  was  very  hopeless  before  he  went 
there." 

"  But  to  leave  you  all  here,  before  you  are  fairly  settled 
in  this  strange  home, — among  strangers — " 

"  Yet  what  could  you  do  for  us,  were  you  to  stay,  my 
son?"  ^.-^•  X 

"  True, — what  could  I  do, — so  nerveless  as  I  now  am?" 
and  an  expression  of  pain  passed  over  the  usually  serene 
features. 

"  Go  and  get  well  with  all  possible  speed,"  said  Zilpha, 
''  and  then,  what  can't  you  do?" 

*'  But  the  mind  and  body  act  and  react  so  on  each 
other,  the  sympathy  between  them  is  so  acute,  that  I 
might  experience  more  mischief  in  my  weak  condition  from 
being  thus  alone  for  the  winter,  than  the  variable  climate 
here  might  effect." 

"  Y^ou  are  not  to  think  of  going  alone  !"  was  the  simul- 
taneous rejoiner  ;  "  any  of  us  will  go  with  you." 

"  Any  of  you  ! — which  can  7  As  for  you,  Bryant,  it's 
simply  out  of  the  question  for  you  to  leave  your  ministe- 
rial  duties,  just  newly  established  in  them  as  you  are  ; 
mother's  head  and  hands  are  needed  here  ;  Zilpha  is 
necessary  to  encourage  you   all  at  home,  and  Edith  is  too 


48  SILVERWOOi). 

much  afraid  of  strange  faces, — not  brave  enough,  or  per- 
haps I  ought  to  say,  not  self-trustful  enough.'' 

"But  I  am  not  easily  disconcerted  by  strange  faces, 
and  can  be  right  brave  upon  occasions,  if  I  must  say  it 
myself,"  said  Zilpha,  cheerfully.  "  I'm  not  so  important  by 
any  means,  as  you  imagine,  at  home  ;  so  what  is  to  pre- 
vent my  going  ?" 

The  paleness  of  Mrs.  Irvine's  usually  bright  cheek  alone 
betrayed  the  inward  emotion,  whose  outward  tokens  she 
was  endeavoring  wholly  to  suppress.  It  was  always  her 
principle  of  action  to  spare  the  feelings  of  others,  it  mat- 
tered not  at  what  sacrifice  or  trial  of  her  own. 

"  Indeed,  my  children,  I  know  not  what  to  say.  It  will 
be  a  great  responsibility  for  Zilpha — " 

"  Why  go  at  all  ?"  broke  in  Lawrence.  "  This  is  mild- 
er than  the  climate  I  have  been  accustomed  to  ;  why  not 
stay  here  ?" 

"  You  shrink  already  from  even  this  October  tempera- 
ture ;  besides  here  are  your  physician's  letters,  "  said  Bryant, 
taking  up  one  of  them  and  running  his  eye  over  it.  ' '  I 
will  go  with  you  myself." 

But  to  such  an  arrangement  Lawrence  would  not  hear. 
An  hour  later,  and  the  Vv^hole  matter  had  been  settled 
according  to  Bryant's  first  suggestion.  The  extreme 
scrupulosity,  and  delicacy  which  characterized  Lawrence, 
had  been  over-ruled  ;  and  so  quietly  had  he  at  length 
yielded,  that  even  Zilpha,  who  had  been  so  observant  of 


•FIRESIDE.  49 

the  growing  passiveness  of  the  mind  that  was  firm  and 
fixed  in  its  own  decisions  almost  to  a  fault,  was  surprised. 
This,  she  had  thought,  would  he  the  most  difficult  point  to 
carry  ;  yet  with  what  apparent  ease  it  had  been  managed. 
She  only  saw  the  calm  exterior  ;  she  could  not  know  how 
the  high,  independent  spirit  secretly  chafed, — how  the 
proud  will,  for  an  instant,  rose  defiantly  against  the  iron 
thralldom  of  circumstances,  till  it  caught  the  whisperings 
of  faith,  saying,  "  Thine, — not  mine,  be  done  !" 


VI. 

Mmk  Jftik 

Autumn, — tender- thou ghted,  dreamy  autamn, — came 
gliding  down  the  mountain  sides,  throwing  back  from  her 
subdued  brow  her  veil  of  wreathed  mists,  and  gathering 
about  her  bosom  her  robe  of  many  colored  dyes,  as  with 
laggard  step  she  sauntered  through  the  dim  valleys  and  over 
the  purple  hills.  The  light  of  the  sun  came  pallidly  through 
the  woven  haze  that  stretched  across  the  slumberous  sky, 
and  far  away  * 

"The  white,  fleecy  clouds 

Were  wandering  in  thick  flocks  above  the  mountains, 
Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwiUing  wind." 

The  meadow-brooks  ran  with  a  hushed  murmnr,  and  the 
delicate  vapor  hung  above  their  winding  courses  like  the 
lingering  memory  of  the  summer  joyousness  that  was  now 
over  and  gone.  Stillness  was  in  all  the  air,  and  even  the 
occasional  chirp  of  some  lonely  bird  had  in  it  a  drowsy 


52  SILVERWOOD. 

cadence.  Far  and  wide  had  the  sweet,  pale  autumn  wan- 
dered ;  and  the  mist  beneath  her  eyelids  grew  tender,  and 
gathered  more  and  more  heavily,  as  she  listened  to  the 
rustle  of  the  crisp  leaves  that  were  searing  beneath  her 
tread  ;  for  change  waited  upon  her  lightest  touch,  and  the 
chaplets  of  oak  and  maple  leaves,  of  purple  asters,  and  of 
golden  rods,  which,  in  idle  dalliance  she  wove,  withered 
while  she  twined  them.  Her's  was  indeed  a  gentle,  but 
mournful  mission — to  soothe  and  beautify  decay. 

The  family  at  Silverwood  were  all  abroad  in  the  cottage 
lawn  and  garden,  seeking  to  dispel,  by  means  of  busy  em- 
ployment, the  effect  of  the  October  day's  sadness,  if  indeed 
any  haunted  them.  The  vines  about  the  porch  that  had 
so  long  followed  the  bent  of  their  own  wild  will,  must  at 
least  be  so  gathered  up  and  interlaced,  as  to  afford  free 
passage ; — the  straggling  rose-bushes  that  reached  out 
their  long  branches  in  unchecked  luxuriance,  were  to  be 
tied  up,  so  that  the  once  gravelled  walk  might  be  unob- 
structed, and  the  sprawling  syringas  and  guelder-roses 
be  made  to  keep  within  reasonable  bounds. 

Josepha  stood  beside  "  Uncle  Felix," — the  old  negro 
factotum  of  the  establishment,  watching  him  as  he  nailed 
some  loose  palings  in  their  place  upon  the  carriage-gate, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  lawn,  and  cultivating  an  acquaint- 
ance, which  had  already,  on  her  side,  ripened  into  some- 
thing of  a  feeling  of  veneration,  as  she  regarded  him  and 
his  sister,  Aunt  Rose,  as  the  last  remnants  of  the  family 


UNCLE    FELIX.  63 

that  had  once  filled  this,  her  grandfather's  home.     The 
old  man  had  been  talking  to  her  of  her  father. 

"  Uncle  Felix,  what  makes  you  call  him  ^  Master 
Henry' — why  don't  you  say  '  Master  Irvine  V  " 

"La,  Miss  Josey,  I  knowed  him  when  he  wa'n't  no 
bigger  nor  you.  Me  and  him  used  to  play  together  when 
we  was  boys." 

'*  Yes,  I  know — my  father  lived  here  before  he  went  up 
to  my  native  State ;  he  was  born  here,  I  believe, — were 
you  ?" 

^^  Me  I  bless  yer  heart,  no,  honey;  I  b'lieve  I  corned 
from  Africy." 

"  From  Africa  ?  I  reckon  not — that's  a  great  ways  off. 
I  expect  it  must  have  been  from  Charleston." 

"  Well,  I  comed  'cross  a  mighty  big  water ;  and  I'se 
oilers  heern  de  sea,  'tween  dis  an'  Libeery,  was  powerful 
wide." 

''  And  how  long  were  you  coming  ?" 

"  A  right  smart  time — I  mos'  forgits — it's  been  so  many 
years  sence.  It  mought  ha'  been  a  chance  of  two  or  three 
days.  I  mind  ole  Mas'r — yer  grand  pa' — was  monsous 
sick." 

"  Two  or  three  days  !  Why,  my  geography  says  the 
ocean  is  three  thousand  miles  across  I" 

*'  Now,  Miss  Josey  I  you  jes'  wants  to  fool  an  ole  nigga !" 
exclaimed  Uncle  Felix,  straightening  himself  up,  and  peer- 
ing incredulously  into  the  child's  face.     '^  My  son  Jeff,' 


64  SILVERWOOD. 

wot's  over  dar — you  know,  Mas'r  Henry,  yer  pa',  sent  all 
his  black  folks,  wot  'ud  go,  to  Libeery,  befo'  he  died. 
Well  JefF',  he  writ  back  some  sich  big  story  as  dat,  but  I 
didn't  pay  no  'tention  to  it ;  for  JefF',  he  oilers  liked  to 
make  peoples  stare." 

<' But  its  true."  '   '  --  ,. 

*'  Well,  if  you  say  so,  mebby  it  is  true.  I  never 
troubles  my  head  'bout  der  cur'us  things  folks  tells.  I'se 
heern  a  queer  story  I  wants  to  ax'  you  'bout,  'cause  I 
don't  mo'  nor  half  b'lieve  it ;"  and  "Uncle  Felix  paused 
and  sat  down  on  a  stone  to  rest  himself,  after  the  arduous 
exertion  of  fastening  on  the  few  palings.  He  employed 
the  interval,  however,  in  searching  for  a  straight  nail, 
among  some  rusty  ones  of  every  size  which  he  had  in  a 
gourd — that  indispensable  article  of  nature's  purveying, 
supplying,  as  it  does,  the  vacuum  in  the  negro's  lack  of 
mechanical  skill,  and  furnishing  him  with  everything 
needful  in  the  way  of  receptacle,  from  a  drinking-cup  to 
a  porte-monnaie,  or  a  tobacco-box — '*  I'se  been  telled  der 
elephants  war  so  powerful  big  in  Africy,  dat  de  natives 
hollers  out  places  in  der  sides  and  gits  in,  and  cuts  off 
fresh  steaks  every  day,  and  der  creetur  don't  find  it  out !" 

Jesepha  shouted  with  laughter  at  such  a  Munchausen 
story. 

"  Why,  Miss  Josey,  JefF'  writ,  las'  year,  'bout  'em 
growin'  der  own  coffee,  and  raisin'  He  on  der  plantations. 
De  idear  of  ile  grovnrC  /"  •   -         ._ ,_-  . 


UNCLE  FELIX.  56 

Josepha  was  at  some  pains  to  impart  her  Peter  Parley's 
knowledge  on  the  subject  of  palm-trees,  and  elephants, 
and  other  African  matters  to  her  attentive  listener,  until 
in  his  interest,  he  had  well  nigh  forgotten  his  work.  When 
her  instructions  were  over,  she  said,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause  :    "  You  were  here  when  my  father  died — " 

*^  Yes,  Miss  Josey,  Mas'r  Barry  Woodruff  and  me  was 
all,  'cept  Rose  an'  her  child'en.  You  know,  Mas'r  Henry, 
yer  pa',  come  down  to  look  after  de  ole  place  when  yer 
grandpa'  died;  and  Mas'r  Barry  bein'  older  nor  Mas'r 
Lawrence,  and  a  kind  o'  'dopted  son,  wa'n't  he  ?" 

<(  No — ^he's  a  cousin  of  my  mother ;  but  his  parents 
died  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  we  were  the  nearest 
relations  he  had,  and  so  he  has  lived  a  great  deal  with  us." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  he  come  along  for  company.  Mas'r 
Henry  had  got  things  pretty  much  straightened  up.  Some 
of  de  black  'uns  had  jes  got  oif,  to  go  to  Libeery,  and  de 
rest  had  gone  down  country  to  your  Aunt  Maria's,  on 
Jeames  River.  Rose's  husband  lived  to  Mas'r  Preacher 
Norris',  and  my  ole  woman,  she  belonged  to  ole  Miss  Sally 
Horton  ;  so  we  was  to  stay  here  and  help  take  care  of  de 
plantation  till  'twar  rented.  Well,  as  I  war  sayin',  Mas'r 
Henry  jes'  got  his  business  finished,  and  was  ready  to 
start  home,  when  he  took  sick ;  and  in  yon  room.  Miss 
Josey — " 

"  No — no !"  said  Josepha,  putting  her  hands  over  her 
eyes,  and  turning  her  head  in  the  other  direction  from 


56  SILVER  WOOD. 

that  in  which  the  old  man's  finger  pointed — "  don't  tell 
me  ;  I'd  rather  not  know  which  room  my  father  died  in — 
though  I  can't  help  guessing  that  it's  the  one  mother  has 
taken  for  her  chamber ;  for  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes 
when  sister  Zilpha  tried  to  get  her  to  choose  the  one  oppo- 
site to  it,  because  it  was  pleasanter,  and  looked  towards 
Milburne ;  but  she  said  she  had  a  reason  for  liking  the 
other  better.     I  wish  I  hadn't  heard  her  say  that." 

"  Oh !  if  you'd  only  seed  him  go,  Miss  Josey," — and 
the  expression  of  the  black,  and  wrinkled,  and  unintelli- 
gent face  became  earnest  and  even  elevated,  as  he  spoke, 
— "  you'd  never  think  de  place  war  gloomy-like.  Dar's 
been  angels  dar ;  for  I  likes  to  b'lieve  de  ole  Mas'r  above 
sends  'em  blessed  sperits  for  his  child'en,  when  dey  is 
ready  to  go  ;  an'  he  war  ready,  sure.  Miss  Josey.  I  never 
forgits  it,  though  Mas'r  Henry's  been  gone  dead  mos'  dese 
ten  year.  But,  hi ! — yonder  comes  Mis'  Nannie  Grrant- 
ley's  fine  carriage.  She's  gwine  to  call  on  your  ma'  and 
de  young  mis'esses." 

"  Miss  Nannie  Grrantley  !  why,  I  read  the  name  on  the 
card  that  came  with  those  partridges  that  were  sent  to 
brother  Lawrie,  and  it  was  Mrs.  Grantley.  Isn't  she  a 
widow  lady  ?" 

"  Sartain  she  is.  But,  honey,  you  ain't  usen  to  our 
Virginny  ways.  We  black  'uns  never  says  '  Mrs.  Grrant- 
ley'— too  much  freed  ery  'bout  dat;  'sides  I  knowed  her 


UNCLE  FELIX.  57 

when  she  was  Miss  Nannie  Burton.     Mighty  fine  folks,  I 
tell  you  I — kind  o'  stylish — " 

"  Then  I  must  run  and  give  warning,  and  let  mother, 
and  sister,  and  Edith  have  time  to  get  off  their  garden 
gloves  and  sun-honnets ;"  and  away  the  little  messenger 
flew  up  the  grass-grown  pathway  with  her  constant  attend- 
ant, Fidele,  at  her  heels,  to  herald  the  visitor's  approach. 

*'  Griad  to  welcome  you  among  us  as  a  resident,  Mrs. 
Irvine,"  said  Mrs.  Grrantley,  in  her  blandest  manner,  as, 
accompanied  by  her  sister.  Miss  Burton,  she  took  her  seat 
in  the  cottage  parlor.  "  Our  husbands'  families  were  old 
acquaintances,  so  that  mutual  friendship  is  our  natural  in- 
heritance." 

Mrs.  Irvine's  cordial  greeting,  and  quick,  kind  reply, 
gave  proof  that  she  would  not  be  wanting  on  the  score  of 
social  feeling. 

"  I  am  really  charmed  that  Silver  wood  is  to  be  inhabit- 
ed again,"  continued  Mrs.  Grantley,  "only  that  it  will 
detract  a  little  from  the  picturesqueness  of  our  landscape 
to  see  signs  of  life  about  the  old  mansion.  A  deserted 
house,  left  to  decay,  and  romantically  hidden  away  among 
overgrown  shrubbery,  one  must  allow,  is  an  unusual  sight 
in  this  all-alive  country  of  ours,  though  we  have  some- 
thing of  that  kind  to  show  in  the  ruins  of  the  old  Hall, 
near  you." 

"  And  permit  me  to  say.  Madam,"  interposed  Bryant, 
"by  no  means  an  agreeable  one." 

3 


68  SILVERWOOD. 

"Ah!  think  so  ?"  said  the  lady,  arching  her  eyehrows. 
"  I  confess  I  learned  to  look  on  it  differently  when  in  Eng- 
land. Time-stained  walls,  and  moss-grown  roofs,  and 
ivy-covered  turrets,  vocal  with  rooks,  and  all  that  one  sees 
there,  about  many  of  the  grand  old  remnants  of  a  former 
age,  have  so  much  of  the  delightful  aroma  of  antiquity 
around  them,  that  whatever  in  the  slightest  degree  suggests 
them,  is  positively  refreshing  in  our  fast  times." 

"  Silverwood  does  not  furnish  you  with  any  thing  like  the 
fragrance  of  antiquity,  however,"  replied  Mrs.  Irvine,  smi- 
ling. ''  It  has  been  deserted  long  enough  to  have  become 
rather  unsightly  ;  but  too  short  a  time  to  have  assumed 
anything    of    the  picturesque." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  as  to  that,  Cousin  Mary,"  said  Bry- 
ant. "  The  old,  uninhabited  '  quarters,'  with  the  moss 
on  their  clapboard  roofs,  and  their  tumble-down  stone 
chimneys,  and  doors  hanging  on  one  hinge,  might  come 
into  the  category.  And  though  you  are  not  able  to 
supply  Mrs.  Grantley  with  a  rookery,  Silverwood  can 
defend  itself  against  the  imputation  of  having  anything 
to  do  with  these  'fast  times,'  since  it  possesses  a  bat-ery, 
as  I  can  testify,  from  the  number  of  black  wings 
which  the  smoke  forced  to  take  flight  from  my  chimney 
last  night.  And  why  should  bats  not  be  considered  quite 
as  aristocratic  as  rooks  ?  The  following  up  of  their  lineage 
would  at  least  leave  us  amidst  the  ruins  of  Assyrian 
palaces." 

'*  Well,  well;  all  this  aside,''  replied  Mrs.  Grrantley,  good 


UNCLE   FELIX.  59 

humoredly.  ''  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Silverwood  exchange  its 
air  of  desertion  for  one  of  genial  life.  But  I'm  afraid  your 
young  people  will  sadly  feel  the  want  of  society  herea- 
bouts, Mrs.  Irvine,  unless  they  mean  to  avail  themselves 
of  the  resource  my  sister  and  I  adopt,  and  like  those  rare 
caterers  of  domestic  enjoyment,  the  English,  spend  '  the 
season'  away  from  their  country  home." 

"  I  have  no  fear  for  them  on  that  score.  I  believe  they 
have  never  yet  learned  to  prefer  the  delights  of  society  to 
the  simpler  pleasures  of  their  own  fire-side." 

"  Ah  I  yes,  I  understand  :  an  unfailing  spring  of  in- 
ward resources — very  convenient  and  independent.  They 
are  like  my  sister,  yonder,  in  that  respect.  But  for  my- 
self, I  confess  to  the  necessity  of  a  little  of  the  wine  of  ex- 
citement to  stimulate  my  mental  activities.  However,'' 
continued  the  lady,  in  a  patronizing,  yet  pleasant  way, 
*' '  Grrantley-holm' and  its  mistress  are  at  their  service. 
My  sister  is  devoted  to  horse-back  exercises,  forest  scram- 
blings,  flower-huntings,  in  short,  every  kind  of  country  en- 
tertainment. So  I'm  glad  for  their  mutual  enjoyment,  that 
your  daughters'  tastes  and  hers  will  coincide." 

Mrs.  Irvine  expressed  her  thanks.  *'  Even  if  they  had 
not,"  she  went  on  to  say,  ''  living  in  the  midst  of  such  a 
panorama  of  mountains  as  we  have  here,  would  be  sufficient 
to  inspire  such  tastes,  "We  are  captivated  with  the  noble 
scenery  about  us." 

"  Very  fine — very  fine,  no  doubt.  But  I'm  like  a 
friend  of  mine  from  the  lower  country,  who  had  never 


60  SILVERWOOD. 

seen  anything  in  the  landscape  line  higher  than  a  Caroli- 
na potatoe-hill.  She  arrived  at  Grrantley-holm  at  night, 
and  my  sister  contrived  that  her  first  impression  should  be 
from  our  breakfast-room,  which  commands  a  near  view  of 
the  most  striking  of  our  mountains :  so  the  next  morning 
she  drew  aside  the  curtains,  and  waited  mutely  for  a  burst 
of  enthusiasm.  '  Well,  what  of  it  V  my  sister  asked, — 
tired  of  watching  for  the  ignition  of  so  slow  a  match. 
*  Why, — why, — I  expect  it  would  be  very  grand,  if  this 
great,  shaggy  thing  were  away,  so  that  I  could  see  !'  I 
believe  Betty  has  ceased  to  be  cicerone  for  Nature  since 
that." 

Lawrence,  not  aware  that  there  were  visitors  in  the 
parlor,  sauntered  slowly  in,  with  a  book  open  in  his  hand. 
After  due  presentation,  the  voluble  lady  turned  to  him 
with  ready  adaptation,  as  she  imagined,  to  his  peculiar 
bent ;  for,  from  his  pale,  scholarly  look,  and  his  volume, 
she  set  him  down  in  her  mind  as  a  student. 

"  A  heavenly  day,  Mr.  Irvine.  Just  the  atmosphere  in 
which  to  walk  abroad  with  Nature-worshipping  Words- 
worth in  one's  hand." 

"  Beautiful,  indeed  !"  returned  Lawrence,  in  his  quiet 
way. 

"  I  was  remarking  to  my  sister,  as  we  drove  here  this 
morning,  that  the  expression  of  the  sky  was  a  study  for 
an  artist,  such  as  Claude  Lorraine,  or  the  English  Turner. 
The  atmospheric  effect  recalled  one  of  Claude's  landscapes, 


UNCLE   FELIX.  61 

which  I  had  been  greatly  taken  with,  some  years  since,  in 
Rome, — ^  the  Mulino,'  I  think  it  is  called." 

Lawrence  was  silent,  answering  only  by  a  bow  ;  but  a 
listener  was  all  Mrs.  Grrantley  wanted. 

*'  But  we  have  no  Southeys,  or  Coleridges,  or  Christopher 
Norths,  among  us,  to  dignify  or  give  interest  to  our  Skid- 
daws  and  Helvellyns." 

Lawrence  seemed  inclined  to  vouchsafe  a  remark,  and 
the  lady  paused  an  instant. 

*'  Your  mountains  are  so  grand.  Madam,  that  even  the 
presence  of  nature's  best  spirits  in  their  midst  could  add 
nothing  to  their  individual  interest, — except,  indeed,  as 
they  might  help  us  better  to  interpret  the  language  of  their 
mute  eloquence." 

*'  Glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  sir, — glad  to  hear  you  admire 
the  only  object  we  have  to  be  proud  of,  more  especially  as 
I  am  allied  to  the  soil  here,  and  am  touched  by  all  that 
touches  the  pride  of  our  State  in  any  way.  But  you  must 
allow  me  to  dispute  your  position :  human  association 
adds  a  charm  to  anything.  Put  but  a  human  figure  in  a 
picture,  and  what  a  sympathy  we  have  with  it,  be  it  noth- 
ing more  than  some  ragged  wayfarer,  from  whose  contact 
we  would  shrink  in  actual  life, — a  sympathy  which,  in 
the  want  of  some  figure,  the  landscape  might  fail  to 
awaken.  This  is  the  reason,  I  believe,  that  I  doated  so 
upon  English  and  European  scenery,  where  every  object 


62  SILVERWOOD. 

has  its  association ;  and  felt  the  barrenness  of  my  own 
country,  on  this  point,  when  I  came  home." 

"Yet,  inasmuch  as  nature  is  purer  and  holier  than 
man,"  replied  Lawrence,  "  do  I  rather  enjoy  these  lonely 
mountains  and  solitary  valleys — " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Irvine,  taking  up  the  sentence  her 
son  had  left  unfinished  ;  "for  do  you  not  find  that  most  of 
these  old-world  associations  are  mixed  up  and  contam- 
inated with  man's  evil  passions, — with  battle  and  blood- 
shed ?" 

"  But,  then,  think  of  the  chivalry, — the  heroic  deeds 
that  sanctify  the  soil  there  I  When  we  hunt  for  the  inter- 
est that  attaches  to  the  past  of  our  landscape,"  and  Mrs. 
Grrantley  waved  her  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  sweeping, 
blue  mountain  ridges  seen  through  the  window,  "  we  must 
be  content  with  the  roar  of  bears,  the  screech  of  wild-cats, 
and  the  whoops  of  Indians — by  the  v/ay  no  very  unsullied 
sons  of  nature,  either,  Mr.  Irvine." 

Lawrence  smiled.  "  And  yet,  speaking  of  the  absence 
of  the  heroic  Mrs.  Grantley,  it  is  never  necessary  to  re- 
mind a  Virginian  that  his  soil  produced  the  truest  of  mod- 
ern, or  indeed  of  ancient  heroes." 

"  Ah  !  yes  ;  that  was  the  only  thing  I  used  to  be  proud 
of  abroad, — that  I  came  from  the  land  of  Washington." 

After  more  such  desultory  chat,  the  ladies  rose  to  take 
leave.  Mr.  Irvine  and  Mr.  Woodruff*  were  pressed  to 
come  to  Grrantley -holm,  and  avail  themselves  of  its  libra- 


UiS-CLE   FELIX.  6-3 

ly.  '•  It  might  contain  books  worthy  of  the  eye  of 
soholars,  for  ]\Ir.  Grrantley  had  selected  most  of  it  himself, 
with  great  care.  Many  of  the  editions  of  authors  were 
rare,  and  nearly  all  were  European."  To  Zilpha  and 
Edith  were  proffered  carriage  and  horses,  flowers  from  the 
garden,  in  short,  whatever  the  establishment  had  to  give. 
Even  a  servant  was  urged  upon  Mrs.  Irvine,  in  case  she 
might  not  be  fully  provided,  or  were  not  through  with  her 
unpacking.  Miss  Burton  was  fortunately  a  quiet  person  ; 
but  even  her  few  words  were,  with  some  difficulty,  slipped 
in  amidst  her  sister's  overpowering  and  voluble  leave- 
takings. 

"  Has  Miss  Burton  been  to  Europe,  too  ?"  asked  Josepha, 
who  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation  from  behind 
her  mother's  chair,  after  the  visitors  were  gone. 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed,"  said  Zilpha.  ''  All  her  talk  was 
of  the  walks  and  rides  and  views  there  are  about  here." 

"  She  must  differ  from  her  sister  a  good  deal,"  was 
Lawrence's  dry  remark. 

"  You  didn't  seem  to  'take  a  shine  '  to  Mrs.  Grrantley, 
as  Uncle  Felix  says.    I'm  sure  she  tried  to  entertain  you." 

*'  Yes,  Sepha  ;  but  I  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  the 
weight  of  all  her  '  Mulinos  '  and  '  Skiddaws.'  " 

' '  And  how  kind  she  was  to  offer  us  horses,  and  mother 
a  servant." 

"  Yery.  A  Spanish  hidalgo  is  not  more  so,  when  he 
tells  his  guest  that  himself,  and  his  house,  and  all  he  has, 
are  his." 


VII 


Cjjt  ItataVs  Spring. 


"  I  HAVE  been  thinking,  Lawrence,-'  said  Edith  to  her 
brother,  some  days  after  this,  as  they  stood  together  in  the 
morning  sunshine,  on  the  now  repaired  and  trim  porch — 
^'  I  have  been  thinking  that  you  might  take  advantage  of 
one  of  these  fine,  mild  days, — so  beautiful,  that  they  seem 
to  have  dropped  out  of  June,  and  fallen  into  the  lap  of 
October, — to  make  some  acquaintance  with  the  neigh- 
borhood about  us.  You'll  not  be  able  to  look  upon  it  as 
home,  when  you're  gone,  unless  you  get  to  know  it  better. 
Suppose,  if  you  feel  strong  enough,  we  spend  part  of  the 
day,  and  lunch,  at  this  '  Spring,'  which  the  children  have 
been  teasing  us  to  go  and  see  ever  since  Uncle  Felix 
pioneered  them  to  it." 

''  How  far  away  is  it  ?" 

"  Not  very  far  beyond  '  The  Rtdns,^  which,  for  their 
own  sake,  if  not  for  Mrs.  G-rantley's,  you'll  want  to  visit. 
'  Nade's  Spring'  it's  called,  according  to  Uncle  Felix,  who 

3* 


66  SILVEKWOOD. 

*  reckons  somebody  of  that  name  must  have  owned  it 
once  ;'  but  Eunice's  mythological  studies  have  helped  her 
to  another  interpretation,  and  she  calls  it  '  The  Naiad's 
Spring.'  You  can  ride,  and  we'll  walk  by  your  side,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  Yicar  of  Wakefield's  family." 

Mrs.  Irvine  came  to  the  door  at  that  moment,  and  when 
the  plan  was  referred  to  her  decision,  she  so  heartily  fell 
in  with  it,  that  her  cheerful  acquiescence  made  it  seem 
more  desirable  than  ever. 

"  "We  will  go  to-day.  It  will  be  pleasant  for  you  to  have 
some  such  '  human  associations,'  as  Mrs.  Grantley  says, 
about  these  landscapes, — that  is,  if  you  can  bear  the  fa- 
tigue, and  are  not  afraid  of  being  so  long  in  the  open 
air." 

"  He  can  ride  Roland,  mother ;  and  we  will  take  the 
balmiest  part  of  this  bright  day,  and  be  home  before 
there  is  a  suspicion  of  evening  chilliness  in  the  air." 

So  the  rural  excursion  was  agreed  upon,  and  Edith 
went  forthwith  to  give  token  to  the  others,  and  to  purvey 
what  might  be  necessary  for  the  occasion. 

*'  Let  us  have  coffee  out  there?"  exclaimed  Josepha,  as 
she  danced  with  glee  in  anticipation  of  the  pleasure  to  be 
realized. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Please  Edith,"  chimed  in  the  quieter 
Eunice.  "Uncle  Felix  can  carry  a  basket  with  all  the 
things,  and  mother  likes  a  nice  cup  of  coffee  so  much  I" 

"And  it  will  be  such  fun  to  make  the  fire, — a  fire  in  the 


THE  naiad's  SPRIXa.  67 

woods  I — that'll  be  so  gipsey-like !"  and  the  child  chuck- 
led with  delight. 

Aunt  Rose  at  once  set  to  work  to  make  some  of  her 
nicest  biscuits,  and  Edith  referred  to  "  Mrs.  Raffalds,"  of 
venerable  and  savory  m"!mory,  for  some  receipt  of  such 
delicate  compound  as  might  please  her  brother's  capri- 
cious appetite.  A  "  lemon  posset "  was  fixed  on;  so 
Eunice  was  employed  to  rasp  a  lemon,  while  Josepha's 
effervescence  overflowed  itself  in  helping  everybody.  She 
must  needs  measure  the  flour  for  Aunt  Rose,  and  go 
with  Daphne  down  to  "  the  spring-house,"  to  fill  the  de- 
canter Zilpha  had  provided  with  rich  cream,  and  pack 
some  butter  down  in  a  deep  little  china  dish,  and  see  that 
the  ham  was  not  cut  too  thick  for  the  sandwiches — "  For 
you  must  know,  Daphne,  brother  Lawrie  likes  ham  shaved 
down  as  thin  as  '  bath  post' — an  accepted  term  in  the 
family  for  the  last  degree  of  thinness,  and  about  as  well 
comprehended  by  the  servant  as  the  child. 

Mrs.  Irvine  provided  a  square  of  carpet, — a  sort  of 
Prince  Houssain's  tapestry,  according  to  Mr.  "WoodrufPs 
fancy,  on  which  they  only  needed  to  seat  themselves,  and 
at  a  given  word,  be  wafted  av/ay  to  their  place  of  destina- 
tion. 

Zilpha  had  hunted  up  a  great  basket,  and  in  due  time 
everything  necessary  had  been  stowed  away  in  it. 

<•  Bat  the  hot  biscuits  will  melt  the  butter,  and  heat 
brother  Lawrie's  sherry,"  said  Josepha,  as  she  surveyed 


6B  SILVERWOOD. 

the  disposition  of  the  edibles — *'  that'll  never  do.  Cousin 
Barry,  suppose  you  slip  this  bottle  into  your  pocket,  and 
I'll  find  a  little  basket  for  the  biscuit." 

''/load  my  pocket  with  a  suspicious  looking  bottle!" 
exclaimed  Mr.  Woodruff,  with  an  expression  of  sham 
eifront.  "  You  forget  my  ministerial  character,  child.  I 
preach  against  wine-drinking  sometimes." 

"  Lawrence  has  Paul's  warrant,"  said  Zilpha,  laughing. 
*'  So  give  me  the  sherry — I've  no  scruples  ;"  but  the  neck 
of  the  bottle  was  seen  peeping  out  of  Bryant's  coat  pocket, 
notwithstanding,  as  the  party  emerged  from  the  gate. 

"  Who  has  been  our  book  purveyor  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Irvine.  "  Though  I  dare  say  some  of  you  have  made  pro- 
vision in  that  line." 

"Oh  I  please  don't  take  any  books,"  begged  Josepha. 
"  Let's  study  nature  to-day,  as  Eunice  says  ;"  and  she  tried 
to  draw  away  the  volume  she  spied  under  Edith's  arm. 
"  I  wonder  if  sister  hasn't  got  her  sketch-book,  too.  I  de- 
clare she  shan't  sit  down  and  draw,  when  we're  just  going 
out  to  have  a  gipsey  frolic ;"  and  Josepha  lifted  Zilpha's 
mantle. 

"  Sure  enough  !  here  it  is  I — Edith,  I  hope  you  haven't 
got  any  paper  with  you." 

"  If  she  has  more  than  she  needs  for  her  '  Forest-mus- 
ings,' or  her  '  Leaves  from  a  Dryad's  Haunt,'  I  can  borrow 
some,  Sepha,  to  note  down  the  heads  of  my  next  Sunday's 


THE  naiad's  sprixg,  69 

"  If  you  do  !  Cousin  Barry: — "but  never  mind  ;  I'll  steal 
it  all  to  make  paper  boats  to  sail  on  the  spring.  Brother 
Lawrence,  haven't  you  brought  along  that  book  of  old 
Latin  hymns  you're  so  fond  of?  And  mother,  I  can 
run  back  for  your  thimble  and  some  of  that  sewing  in 
your  work-basket,  and  hunt  up  my  G-eography  at  the 
same  time.  I  reckon  I  might  learn  a  lesson  while  the 
coffee's  boiling." 

"  Put  away  your  discontent,  my  child,"  said  her  moth- 
er. "  I'll  see  to  it  that  Edith  writes  no  'musings,  '  nor 
Cousin  Bryant  any  sermon — so  be  easy.  Come,  Lawrence, 
Roland  is  ready,  and  Fidele  is  all  impatience, — so  let's 
be  off.  See,  the  shadows  are  shortening  under  the  trees 
yonder." 

"  Really,  I'm  ashamed  to  be  so  ungallant,  mother 
dear,"  said  Lawrence.  "  I  wish  you  would  take  the  seat. 
I  can  walk  very  well  half  the  way,  at  any  rate." 

a  Why,  it's  a  gentleman's  saddle!"  exclaimed  Eunice. 

"  Of  course  it  is  ;  but  you  used  to  sit  your  horse  so 
firmly,  when  we  were  in  the  habit  of  riding  together  at 
B ,  mother  dear,  that  that  needn't  be  a  hindrance." 

But  Mrs.  Irvine  persisted  in  refusing ;  so  Lawrence 
was  fain  to  mount  himself,  and  head  the  procession,  while 
Uncle  Felix  and  his  basket  brought  up  the  rear.  Through 
a  long,  green  lane  they  threaded  their  way,  with  Eunice 
and  Josepha  as  pilots,  till  they  came  to  "  The  Ruins," 
as  they  were  familiarly  called, — a  spot  of  varied  and  ro- 


70  SILVERWOOD. 

mantio  beauty.     Hall  had  once  been  a  place  of  no 

ordinary  interest,  and  there  were  memories  and  associa- 
tions linking  it  with  ante-revolutionary  days,  that  gave 
a  charm  to  the  remnants  of  the  rude  architecture.  It 
had  been  destroyed  many  years  before  by  fire,  and  now, 
over  the  crumbling  and  roofless  walls,  wild  vines  were 
clambering,  and  trailing  their  autumn-tinted  foliage,  like 
crimson  banners,  from  the  turreted  chimoey-tops. 

It  stood  surrounded  on  one  side  by  a  grove  of  forest  trees, 
and  through  the  vistas  that  opened  here  and  there,  might  be 
seen  a  picture  of  singular  loveliness,  framed  in  by  a  bro- 
ken line  of  distant  mountains.  The  ground  sloped  away 
into  a  pretty  dale,  spotted  over  by  a  browsing  flock  of 
sheep  ;  and  farther  on,  a  well-worn  path  wandered  through 
a  stubble-field,  and  lost  itself  in  a  strip  of  yellow  woods. 
Beyond  them  rose  the  river  hills,  brilliant  with  their  many 
dyes,  and  stretching  yet  above  them,  towered  aloft  the 
purple  chain  on  one  hand,  while  on  the  other,  nearer  and 
but  half  visible  through  the  flickering  foliage,  swelled  the 
massive  proportions  of  old  "  Castlehead,"  an  isolated  moun- 
tain that  loomed  upon  the  landscape  like  some  giant  for- 
tress, ^i 

After  many  and  enthusiastic  exclamations  over  the  gran- 
deur of  the  scenery,  our  party  called  a  hpxlt  under  the  invi- 
ting shade  of  the  oaks.  Mrs.  Irvine  produced  a  little  sil- 
ver cup,  the  familiar  companion  of  many  a  woodland  walk, 
and  dear  to  all  her  children  and  herself  as  a  suggestive 


I 


THE  naiad's  spring.  71 

link  in  memory's  electric  chain.  Josepha  would  confess 
to  no  fatigue, — when  do  children  ever  get  tired  ? — and  so, 
while  Uncle  Felix  trudged  on,  thinking  that  much  of  a 
walk  'wa'n't  no  circumstance,'  she  pleased  herself  with 
passing  back  and  forth  between  a  tiny  spring  that  spouted 
at  the  root  of  an  old  oak,  and  the  group  under  the  trees, 
bearing  to  each  a  brimming  cup  of  sparkling  water. 

Zilpha's  fingers  were  fidgetty  to  be  at  work.  So  while 
the  little  Hebe's  back  was  turned,  and  her  attention  occu- 
pied with  her  cup-bearing,  out  came  sketch-book  and  pen- 
cil. The  wavy  mountain  outline,  the  rolling  hills,  the 
meadow  slope,  the  glade  at  their  feet,  the  vine-covered 
walls,  even  to  the  flag-like  tuft  of  creeper,  the  artistically- 
grouped  fore-ground,  all  were  quickly  transferred  by  her 
skillful  pencil  to  the  page  before  her,  in  outlines  that 
would  not  have  disgraced  Retsch  himself.  Mrs.  Irvine  sit- 
ting at  the  foot  of  a  gnarled  oak,  with  Eunice's  elbow  res- 
ting on  her  knee,  her  bonnet  flung  on  the  grass  beside  her  ; 
Josepha  coming  up  the  path,  with  the  cup  carefully  bal- 
anced in  her  hand ;  Edith  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the 
book  she  had  brought ;  Lawrence  sitting  sideways  on  his 
horse,  talking  to  his  mother,  and  Bryant  just  before  her, 
tying  up,  with  some  dry  stalks,  the  bunch  of  autumn  flow- 
ers he  had  been  gathering, — all  were  there,  even  down  to 
Fidele. 

"A  sight  of  it,  if  you  please,"  demanded  Bryant,  as 
Zilpha  closed  her  book  ;  but  she  objected.  He  should  see  it 
when  it  was  finished  up. 


72  SILVERWOOD. 

*'  If  you  put  US  all  in,  your  picture  must  look  like  a 
gipsey  camp." 

^'  Contrasts  are  the  artist's  delight,  whether  he  draw 
with  pencil  or  pen.  Those  calm  mountains  yonder,  sleep- 
ing in  the  dim  sun  as  silently  as  if  an  echo  had  never  dis- 
turbed their  solitudes,  and  those  meadows  with  the  haze 
hanging  like  a  dream  over  them,  require  a  foreground  full 
of  life." 

"  Then  you  put  us  all  in  ?  " 

a  Why  shouldn't  I  ?"  Bryant  did  not  answer  her  ques- 
tion ;  and  when  he  spoke,  it  was  to  ask  another. 

"  Do  external  aids  help  to  make  your  memory's  or  mind's 
pictures  any  more  vivid?" 

"  Yes  ;  they  refresh  them  greatly.  I  sometimes  can  re- 
produce on  paper  a  scene,  which,  as  a  whole,  my  memory 
didn't  seem  to  have  possession  of;  but  somehow,  bit  by 
bit,  it  comes  to  me  as  I  draw.  Of  course,  I  must  have  it 
sketched  somewhere,  but  so  overlaid  with  other  things,  that 
not  until  I  attempt  to  give  outward  expression  to  it,  does 
it  have  any  vividness  for  my  mind's  eye  at  all." 

*'  Yet  your  pencil  does  nothing  but  stimulate  the  inward 
eye  to  concentrate  itself  upon  the  object.  But  pictures 
never  do  anytliing  but  tantalize  me.  Now  your  face,  for 
instance, — why  no  artist  in  the  world  could  paint  it  so  true 
as  the  one  that  hangs  up  in  my  '  chamber  of  imagery.'  So 
with  the  faces  and  scenes  I  love  best  to  look  at." 

"  I  don't  happen  to  have  so  much  of  the  '  inner  vision  and 


THE  naiad's  spring.  73 

the  faculty  divine.'  But  see !  they're  beckoning  us  to 
come.  The  procession  has  received  a  marching  signal 
from  Josepha  ;  so  let  us  go." 

Away  they  follov^ed  with  the  rest,  down  the  green  slope, 
over  the  rustic  bars,  along  the  path  through  the  whea^ 
field,  until  after  skirting  the  woods  for  some  time,  they 
struck  into  them,  and  were  soon  within  hearing  of  the 
babble  of  the  brook  that  ran  from  the  *' Naiad's  Spring," 
and  in  sight  of  the  spring  itself. 

A  palisade  of  rocks,  piled  high  above  the  tallest  forest 
trees,  reared  itself  almost  perpendicularly  on  one  side,  and 
in  a  dark  recess  at  its  base,  hemmed  in  by  a  circular  ma- 
son-work of  nature's  framing,  welled  the  clear,  cold  waters. 
How  broad  the  unruffled  surface  was,  they  could  not  de- 
termine ;  but  as  far  as  their  sight  could  reach,  the  water 
stretched  darkly  away,  and  they  caught  murmurs  as  of  a 
lapsing  flow  still  further  within.  A  bright,  resistless 
stream  poured  itself  from  the  spring  over  the  rocks,  with 
much  such  splashing  and  dashing  as  the  water  made  "that 
came  down  from  Lodore  ;"  and  after  widening  into  a  shal- 
low lakelet,  found  its  way  more  silently  into  the  little  riv- 
er beyond. 

Uncle  Felix  had  hunted  out  as  unincumbered  a  place 
as  he  could  hit  upon,  for  the  carpet,  which  was  already 
spread  when  the  party  came  up,  with  the  camp  stools  for 
Mrs.  Irvine  and  Lawrence.  Over  the  Arbor-vitse  shrubs 
that  grew  about  the  spot,  the  shawls  were  hung ;  and 


74  SILVERWOOD, 

that  quick,  bright  look,  begotten  of  tears,  started  into  Mrs. 
Irvine's  eyes,  as  was  apt  to  be  the  case  when  a  sudden 
pleasure  came  upon  her,  as  she  submitted  to  let  herself  be 
almost  pulled  into  a  seat  by  Eunice  and  Josepha  ;  so  eager 
were  they  to  have  her  look  rested,  while  the  older  sisters 
did  the  same  for  Lawrence.  The  tired  look  of  the  latter 
reminded  Bryant  of  the  sherry  he  had  been  commissioned 
to  take  care  of ;  and  he  was  in  haste  to  call  the  magnifi- 
cent wine-cooler  into  requisition,  as  he  termed  the  spring. 
When  the  bottle  had  lain  for  awhile  among  the  clean  peb- 
bles, they  summoned  the  little  cup-bearer  to  bring  her 
goblet.  Playfully  she  dropped  on  her  knees  on  the  carpet, 
as  she  presented  it  to  her  brother. 

"  The  Naiad  of  the  fountain  I"  said   Edith,   smiling,  as 
she  pointed  to  the  child. 

"Only,"  said  Lawrence,"  Pan  does  not  grant  his  Naiads 
the  guardianship  of  such  '  blushful  Hippocrenes '  as  fur- 
nish draughts  like  this.  And  now,  mother  dear, "  he  con- 
tinued, as  he  took  the  cup  from  Josepha,  and  inclined 
his  lithe,  graceful  form  towards  Mrs.  Irvine,  while  a  faint 
flush,  kindled  by  a  momentary  enthusiasm,  broke  over 
his  pale  cheek, — "let  me  pledge  you  in  keeping  with  the 
classic  associations  Edith  has  been  evoking.  May  the 
memory  of  your  happiness  to-day  be  like  an  Arethusa,  steal- 
ing its  way  under  the  weight  of  years,  and  bubbling  up  for 
your  refreshment  in  some  far  island  of  the  future  I" 
.     "  Quite  high-flown,  sir,"  exclaimed  Bryant.     "  Cousin 


THE  naiad's  spring.  75 

Mary,  let's  have  a  Juno-like  response  ;  or,  as  you  sit  on 
a  sort  of  tripod,  we  may  expect  something  of  the  Python- 
ess order." 

Mrs.  Irvine  only  smiled,  and  kissed  the  forehead  that 
was  bent  towards  her.  Perhaps  the  allusion  to  the  future 
carried  her  mind  too  far  forward  :  perhaps  that  sunny  "  is- 
land," to  her  thought,  lay  beyond  the  waters  of  death.  But 
be  that  as  it  might,  she  did  not  allow  the  thought  to 
darken  the  present  gladness  of  the  group  around  her,  and 
^orbade  even  the  tell-tale  eye  to  give  any  token  of  it. 

"  But  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  broke  in  Josepha, 
with  a  puzzled  look.    "  Who  is  Arethusa  ?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  Arethusa  Robbins,  who 
used  to  go  to  Miss  Hays'  school  with  us  ?"  asked  Eunice, 
giving  Josepha's  sleeve  an  admonitory  pull.  "  We  always 
called  her  '  Thusie  :'  but,  brother  Lawrie,  you  could'nt 
mean  that  you  wanted  anybody  to  be  like  her,  for  she  was 
freckled,  and  had  carroty  hair." 

"  So  much  for  an  interpretation  of  a  classic  allusion !" 
said  Lawrence,  laughing. 

''A  very  natural  and  literal  rendering,  certainly,"  said 
Bryant. 

The  party  seated  themselves  beside  Mrs.  Irvine,  and 
wiled  away  some  time  in  pleasant  chat  :  but  the  child- 
ren had  no  idea  that  that  was  the  way  to  ruralize. 

^'  Come,  sister,"  whispered  Josepha  to  Zilpha,  "  let's  kin- 
dle the  fire,  and  boil  our  water  for  the  coffee  :  don't  you 
see  Uncle  Felix  has  a  great  pile  of  dry  sticks  ready  ?" 


^76  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Oh,  not  yet !  we  are  not  quite  in  the  humor  yet  for 
anything  so  substantial ;  we  want  a  little  more  of  '  the 
flow  of  soul  !  first." 

"  The  flow  of  soul !  for  my  part  I  think  the  flow  of  cof- 
fee would  be  a  great  deal  more  sensible.  There  !  Uncle 
Felix  has  lighted  the  fire." 

"  You  would  never  answer  for  '  Patience  on  a  Monu- 
ment,' my  child,"  said  her  mother.  "  Gro  then,  you  and 
Eunice,  and  have  the  water  boiled — that  will  employ 
you  for  the  present ;"  and  permission  being  granted,  the 
two  children  were  soon  flitting  about  among  the  blue 
smoke,  full  of  busy  importance  over  the  culinary  prepara- 
tions. 

Great  was  their  delight  to  find  that  Uncle  Felix  had  a 
fishing-line  in  his  pocket.  A  long,  slender  pole,  cut  with 
his  jack-knife  from  a  neighboring  hickory,  furnished  an 
impromptu  rod,  and  away  the  trio  went,  with  Fidele  gy- 
rating  about  them,  down  to  the  river-bank  to  catch  some 
fish  for  their  dinner.  The  old  man  was  expert  at  the  busi- 
ness, and  soon  a  parcel  of  minnows  were  floundering  on 
the  grass  beside  them. 

'^  But  how  are  we  to  cook  them  ?  We  have  no  gridiron," 
asked  Josepha,  quite  at  a  stand,  as  she  watched  the  pro- 
cess of  preparing  the  fish.  But  Uncle  Felix  was  fertile  in 
expedients.  G-athering  some  of  the  broad  leaves  of  the 
papaw,  he  wrapped  the  fish  in  them,  and  laid  them  beside 
the  fire,  (over  which  the  little  tin  cofiee-pot  had  been  set,) 


THE  naiad's  spring.  77 

ready  for  broiling  when  the  blazing  sticks  should  have 
burnt  down  to  a  bed  of  coals. 

*'  I  don't  wonder,"  began  Edith,  as  she  looked  with  an 
enjoying  eye  on  all  around  her, — "  I  don't  wonder  much  af- 
ter all  at  the  scheme  that  knot  of  English  philosophers,'  or 
rather  poets  of  some  fifty  years  since,  had  in  their  heads 
of  emigrating  to  this  new,  unworn  world,  and  establishing 
a  literary  colony  here.  It  was  a  pretty  fancy — pity  it  was 
a  chimerical  one." 

"  The  Bristol  Poets'  socialistic  scheme,  with  the  high- 
sounding  name,  do  you  mean  ?"  asked  Bryant. 

"Yes  ;  their  '  Pantosocracy,'  as  they  called  it.  I  wouldn't 
say  it  was  socialistic,  though,  in  our  modern,  disagreeable 
sense  of  the  word." 

"  It  was  only  intended  to  embrace  a  score  or  so  of  kin- 
dred souls,  who  were  fretting  under  the  old  system  of  things 
in  England,  which  there  was  no  hope  of  changing,  and 
who  felt  a  feverish  enthusiasm  wholly  at  variance  with 
the  sluggish  current  of  life  around  them." 

"  You  do  well  to  call  it  feverish,  Edith,"  said  her  moth- 
er ;  ''  for  I'm  sure  it  was  not  a  healthy  state  of  mind." 

"  Or  perhaps  it  was  nothing  more  than  the  over-flush  of 
youth,"  said  Lawrence.  "  They  got  over  it  as  they  grew 
older,  I  believe." 

"  Well,  be  that  as  it  may.  Doesn't  the  taste  of  wood-life 
we  are  enjoying  to-day,  suggest  how  delightful  it  would 
be  to  have  a  rustic  cottage — a  permanent  home,  some- 


78  SILVERWOOD. 

where  hereabouts,  away  from  the  world  and  all  its  vexa- 
tions, where  we  could  do  as  we  please,  unrestrained  by  the 
trammels  of  society, — ^happy  in  God,  and  nature,  and  one 
another  ?" 

"  But  you  only  show  one  side  of  the  picture,  Edith — and 
that  the  sunny  side,"  said  Zilpha.  "  Think  of  being  kept 
within  doors  through  long,  bleak  rains  in  these  woods,  or  of 
being  snowed  up,  all  our  store  of  books  read,  all  our  ideas 
mutually  exchanged,  no  letters  to  come  from  distant 
friends,  none  of  humanity's  demands  upon  our  sympathies, 
nobody  outside  of  our  little  circle  to  be  kind  to, — oh,  we 
should  grow  miserably  selfish  and  contracted  in  our  ways 
of  thinking  I" 

"  He  who  made  us,  knows  what  system  of  things  is 
best  for  us,  and  so  He  places  us  where  there  is  necessity 
for  this  action  and  reaction  upon  each  other.  Much  as  I 
love  almost  everything  Cowper  wrote,"  continued  Mrs. 
Irvine,  "  I  can't  at  all  echo  his  desire  '  for  a  lodge  in 
some  vast  wilderness ;'  but  that  was  only  the  utterance 
of  a  momentary  impulse,  when  he  was  sick  of  the  ills 
men's  passions  create  ;  for  he  knew  men  well  enough  to 
know  that  were  they  all  to  turn  hermits,  each  would  car- 
ry their  own  portion  of  deceit  and  wickedness  shut  within 
their  own  bosoms,  and  be  as  unlike  as  possible  to  the  'Her- 
mit' Parnell  speaks  of, — 

*  Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise.'  " 


THE  naiad's  speikg.  79 

"  Yes,  Cousin  Mary,  if  they  would  all  take  to  living  like 
Saint  Simon  Stylites,  they  would  fight  with  themselves  in 
lack  of  other  foes.  And  of  course,  Edith,  if  we  all  lived  in 
a  rustic  cottage,  it  must  be  in  a  rustic  way.  No  luxuries 
allowed  to  corrupt  our  simplicity  ;  no  carpets,  no  sofas,  no 
Epicurean  dishes  ;  all  Arcadian  primitiveness — " 

"  And  no  physicians  within  reach,"  interrupted  Law- 
rence ;  ''  no  dainty  preparations  for  morbid  appetites  ;  none 
of  the  deliciousness  of  neighborly  aid  and  sympathy  when 
we  were  sick.  Ah  !  you  see,  my  sister,  what  a  mere  poet's 
fancy  you  harbor, — nothing  feasible  about  it." 

"  But  we  should  lead  such  temperate  lives,  so  in  har- 
mony with  all  Nature's  requirements,  that  we  should  nev- 
er get  sick — no  late,  heavy  dinners,  no  party-going,  no 
turning  of  night  into  day.  As  to  its  making  us  selfish, 
the  very  fact  of  our  mutual  dependence  would  help  to 
weed  out  what  native  selfishness  was  in  us.  Instead  of 
growing  contracted,  we  would  feel  the  necessity  of  bring- 
ing forth  all  our  treasures  ;  and  as  the  mind  is  an  unfail- 
ing spring,  like  this  beside  us,  and  not  a  reservoir,  we  need 
not  fear  its  giving  out.  As  to  books  and  letters,  it  was 
far  from  the  plan  of  the  English '  Pantosocratists  '  to  be 
without  them.  Their  lives  were  to  be  pre-eminently  de- 
voted to  literary  pursuits,  except  so  far  as  they  would  find 
it  needful  to  labor,  each  one  for  his  own  family's  suste- 
nance, which,  in  a  rich  soil,  they  fancied  would  be  mere 
play.     So,  like  them,  we  would  have  that  sort  of  commu- 


80  SILVERWOOD. 

nioation  with  the  outer  world,  and  have  our  letters,  and  our 
periodical  invoice  of  new  books,  or  write  books  ourselves." 

"  Write  books  ourselves  !"  exclaimed  Lawrence.  ''  Pray, 
what  should  we  have  to  tell  the  world  ?  Pliny,  I  remem- 
ber, complains  in  one  of  his  letters  of  the  multitude  of  new 
poets  that  year  had  brought  out.  What  would  he  think  if 
he  lived  in  these  days,  when  books  of  poetry  and  prose 
flood  the  country  so  as  positively  to  threaten  it  with  inun- 
dation ?" 

"  But  to  be  serious,"  said  Mrs.  Irvine, — ''  you  have  need 
to  be  put  into  the  heart  of  society,  Edith,  to  eradicate  your 
anchorite  notions.  Silverwood,  I'm  afraid,  is  not  the  place 
for  you.  Grod  made  us  social  beings,  and  we  must  not  try 
to  unmake  ourselves.  The  old  convent  life  you  profess 
sometimes  to  have  a  hankering  after,  apart,  of  course,  I  un- 
derstand you,"  as  Edith  was  about  to  interrupt  her  with  an 
explanation,  "  apart  from  its  superstitious  religion — this 
convent  life  tended  to  uproot  all  human  affections  from  the 
heart  of  woman.  And  it's  the  idlest  fancy,  too,  to  suppose 
that  those  sisterhoods  didn't  have  constant  jarrings  and 
blickerings.  I  dare  say  even  at  the  period  of  their  greatest 
purity,  they  were  the  hot-beds  of  such  strifes  as  private 
households  know  nothing  of.  So  get  rid  of  all  these  ideas, 
my  daughter  :  I  don't  like  to  hear  you  advocate  them  even 
in  sport." 

But  the  children  had  become  impatient,  and  in  answer 


THE  NAIAD  S  SPKING.  8L 

to  Josepha's  oft  repeated  sliout  that  the  water  was  boiling, 
Edith  went  to  superintend  the  making  of  the  coffee,  while 
Zilpha  and  Eunice  busied  themselves  in  spreading  out  the 
contents  of  the  basket.  Bryant  cleared  the  dead  leaves 
from  a  flat  rock,  smoothed  the  white  cloth  over  it,  and 
amused  them  all  with  his  awkward  attempts  at  "laying 
the  table.''  Soon  everything  was  in  readiness,  and  Josepha 
enjoyed  to  the  utmost,  the  surprise  occasioned  by  the  sight 
of  the  dish  of  broiled  minnows.  The  fragrance  of  the  coftee 
and  the  savory  smell  of  the  fish,  whetted  all  appetites,  as 
they  seated  themselves  around  their  "Arcadian  table,"  as 
Bryant  persisted  in  styling  it. 

"  And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Irvine,  "  before  we  begin,  let  us 
ask  God's  favor  :  we  should  acknowledge  Him  in  our 
pleasures  as  well  as  elsewhere  :" — and  all  heads  were 
bowed,  as  with  uplifted  hand,  Bryant  invoked  a  blessing 
on  their  meal. 

Not  content  with  her  own  perfect  satisfaction  as  to  the 
unexceptionableness  of  everything,  Josepha  must  have  cor- 
roborating testimony  from  every  lip  ;  and  she  would  hard- 
ly give  them  time  to  drink  their  coffee,  with  her  continual 
questions,  between  each  sip,  about  its  goodness. 

"  And  now.  Uncle  Felix,  it's  your  turn,"  she  called  out, 
as  her  elders  strolled  away,  after  the  meal  was  over,  to- 
wards the  river.   "  Come,  I'll  wait  on  you." 

"  La,  Miss  Josey,  you'se  powerful  good  ;  but  I  wants 
no  white  lady  to  'tend  to  me.     Jes'  leave  me  and  Fidele  to 

4 


82  SILVERWOOD. 

US  two  selves.     We'll  save  you  de  trouble  of  packin'  up 
any  of  de  eatins." 

When  they  returned  from  then*  walky  all  vestiges  of  the 
dinner  had  disappeared.  The  dishes  Avere  washed  and 
put  up,  and  Uncle  Felix  was  just  starting  homeward  with 
his  basket.  Only  a  faint  curl  of  smoke  floated  up  from  the  ' 
smouldering  fire.  They  all  sat  down,  and  the  book  Edith 
had  provided,  was  put  into  Mrs.  Irvine's  hand — "  For  you 
know,  mother,  none  of  us  read  so  well," — Zilpha  had  said, 
as  she  gave  it  to  her.  It  was  no  modern  vohime,  fresh 
from  the  press,  and  gay  with  flashy  binding  of  blue  and 
gilt  ;  but  a  copy  of  the  poet  G-ray's  Letters,  full  of  exqui- 
site bits  of  description  of  English  and  Scottish  scenery,  and 
peculiarly  fitted  for  open  air  reading.  The  fastidious  au- 
thor himself  could  not  have  asked  a  pleasanter  or  more  ap- 
preciative' rendering  of  his  thoughts,  than  Mrs.  Irvine's 
beautifully  modulated  tone  and  distinct  utterance  gave 
them  ;  and  so  perfectly  natural  was  her  way  of  reading, 
that  at  times,  one  and  another  would  look  up,  under  the 
impression  that  she  was  introducing  some  remark  or 
question  of  her  own. 

"  But,  my  children,"  she  said,  as  she  closed  the  book  af- 
ter a  prolonged  reading,  *'  the  sun  is  a  good  deal  to  the 
west  of  us,  and  it's  getting  cool  for  you,  Lawrence  ;  so  w^e 
had  better  turn  our  faces  homeward." 

"  But  let  us  have  a  little  music  before  we  go,"  plead 


THE  naiad's  spring.  83 

Zilpha.     ""Who  can  suggest  a  song  suitable  to  the  occa- 
sion ?" 

"  Or  a  hymn,"  interposed  Lawrence.  "  You  all  remem- 
ber our  home  translation  of  that  little  Latin  hymn  of  Fran- 
cis Xavier  ;  you've  sung  it  ^Yith  us  at  B ,  Bryant,  — 

'  O  !  Deus,  ego  arao  te  ! 
Nee  amo  te  ut  salvas  me ' — 

it's  suitable  for  any  or  every  occasion,  Zilpha." 

"Is  it  the    one  we  used  to  sing   so    often  on    Sunday 

evenings  at  home — at  B ,  I  mean  ?"  asked  Josepha — 

"the  one  beginning — 

'  Oh  !  GoJ,  I  love  thee  I  not  alone 
That  thou  to  me  thy  grace  hast  shown  1  ' 

Eunice  and  I  both  know  that." 

Sweetly  the  strains  of  the  music  floated  out  upon  the 
autumn  air,  mingling  with  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  above 
them,  and  the  loud  gurgle  of  the  waters  at  their  feet ;  and 
the  plaintive  echoes  seemed  still  to  linger,  lost  amid  the 
mazes  of  the  wood,  as  the  party  threaded  the  homeward 
path,  and  left  the   Naiad's  Spring  to  its  own  lonely  mur- 


VIII. 


^nt-|]iills 


A  FEW  mornings  after  this,  as  Mrs.  Irvine,  Zilplia  and 
Edith  were  sitting  together,  busy  over  some  articles  of  the 
travellers'  wardrobe,  in  anticipation  of  the  approaching 
journey,  the  latter  looked  up  from  the  sleeve  of  the  dress 
on  which  her  fingers  were  rather  nervously  arranging  a 
fold — "  Mother,"  she  began,  "  has  Bryant  been  telling  you 
of  his  '  sober  second  thought '  about  going  with  Law- 
rence ?" 

"  Yes ;  he  mentioned  something  of  the  kind  last  night, 
but  he  was  interrupted,  and  didn't  finish  what  he  had  to 
say." 

"  In  my  place,  does  he  mean  ?"  asked  Zilpha. 

"  Then  he  has  not  consulted  you  about  it  ?"  and  Edith 
looked  up  from  her  sewing  with  more  inquiry  in  her  eye 
than  in  her  voice. 

"  No.  I  supposed  the  matter  settled  as  was  first  deter- 
mined on.     Bryant  could  not  go  without  great  inconven- 


86  SILVERWOOD. 

ience  to  himself  and  injury  to  his  congregation.  Besides, 
I  don't  see  the  necessity  for  it.  Lawrence  .seems  so 
revived  within  these  few  days,  that  we  may  hope  much 
from  the  climate  of  Cuba,  and  I  can't  say  I  dread  the 
responsibility  greatly.  Travelling  is  reduced  to  such  a 
science  now-a-days,  that  all  a  lady  absolutely  needs,  is  the 
mere  show  of  protection,  in  the  presence  of  a  gentleman. 
Invalids  have  worn  a  sort  of  beaten  track  to  the  "West 
Indies,  and  all  we'll  have  to  do,  will  be  to  follow  on 
in  it." 

''  You  have  a  marvelously  quiet  way  of  getting  through 
places  where  I  should  stick  fast,"  said  Edith,  as  she 
worked  away  with  a  less  nervous  twitching  of  her  fingers. 
"  The  bare  thought  of  starting  out  on  such  a  journey,  with 
only  a  sick  brother  to  fall  back  upon,  in  case  of  any  difficulty, 
quite  takes  away  my  breath.  But  we  are  so  different 
in  such  respects.  Your  physique^  somehow,  is  better 
adapted  to  the  Avill  that  has  it  in  control,  than  mine." 

''  If  a  thing  is  to  be  done,"  said  Zilpha  simply,  "  my  plan 
is  to  proceed  with  the  doing  of  it  at  once, — 

'  To  do,  or  not  to  do, — that  is  the  question, — ' 

and  when  it's  settled,  the  less  we  worry  ourselves  par- 
leying and  hunting  up  difficulties,  the  easier  for  us." 

"  Now  that's  just  where  you  fail,  Edith,"  said  her 
mother.  Y^our  judgment,  when  feeling  has  not  knocked 
up  a  dust  about  it,  so  as  to  blind  it,  sees  the  bearings  of  a 


ANT-HILLS.  87 

point  better,  perhaps,  than  Zilpha's.  But  then  you  forget, 
often,  what  a  curb  feeling  needs.  You  let  it  have  the 
rein,  and  away  it  goes,  like  an  unbroken  colt,  and  your 
more  sober  judgment  don't  catch  up  with  it  till  it  has  tired 
down  its  mettle  somewhat.  When  you  have  the  rein  tight 
again,  you  are  sure  to  regulate  your  pace  to  suit  judg- 
ment's dictates.  Zilpha  don't  let  herself  get  run  away 
with,— that's  all." 

^'  Bat,  mother,  I'm  just  as  nature  made  me.  I  wish  I 
had  Zilpha's  cooler  way  of  accomplishing  things.  But  a 
passionate,  impulsive  spirit  ought  not  to  be  tried  by  the 
same  standard  as  a  self-contained,  equable  one." 

"  On  that  principle,  my  dear,  none  of  us  would  be  ac- 
countable for  the  errors  into  v/hich  our  passions  lead  ns. 
Our  impulses  toward  evil  are  so  constant  and  so  strong, 
that  life  is  one  interminable  struggle  against  them." 

"  I'm  sure  I  can  assent  to  that,"  said  Zilpha. 

*' We  all  can, — at  least  all  who  try  to  stem  the  current 
of  these  inward  tendencies." 

"  But  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  more  stemming  and 
damming  up  to  do  than  the  rest  of  you,"  said  Edith,  half 
dejectedly. 

*'  The  greater  volume  of  the  current  may  give  it  more 
impetus." 

"  Ah  !  a  salvo,  mother,  for  the  'unbroken  colt '  on  v/hose 
back  you  were  putting  me  just  now." 

''  Not  at  all,  my  child ;  but  it  strikes  me  we  are  wide 


88  SILVERWOOD. 

of  the  subject  with  which  we  started.  All  I  mean  further 
to  say  on  this  point  is,  that  if  it  were  clearly  made  out  to 
you  a  case  of  diity  to  go  with  your  brother,  you  could  go, 
and  you  ivoukV 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  shrink  from  difficulties." 

"  I've  no  doubt  there  would  be  a  deal  of  trouble  in  argu- 
ing down  your  feelings.  They  are  very  sophists,  and  can 
overwhelm  reason  with  their  eloquent  talk  ;  but  in  the 
end,  it  rises,  like  Gulliver  among  the  Lilliputians,  and 
snaps  all  the  brittle  threads  wi-th  which  they  thought 
they  had  made  it  fast.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  we're  oft' 
the  matter  in  question.  If  either  of  you  go  with  Law- 
rence, you,  Zilpha,  are  the  one  best  fitted.  You  don't  lose 
your  self-possession  readily.  Yet,  if  Bryant's  presence 
would  be  a  comfort  to  your  brother,  then  he  shall  go  too. 
Nothing  within  the  compass  of  our  ability  must  be  S[)ared 
to  render  hhn  easy." 

It  was  with  a  sort  of  choked  voice  Mrs.  Irvine  had 
uttered  these  last  words  ;  and  she  turned  from  her  work, 
and  while  seeming  to  look  out  of  the  window,  quietly 
brushed  away  a  tear  that  had  started  to  her  eye. 

''  The  going  will  be  the  most  difficult,"  said  Zilpha,  not 
appearing  to  notice  her  mother's  movement;  "but  after 
Cousin  Bryant  has  seen  us  well  under  way,  I  don't  doubt 
but  that  we  shall  get  along  admirably.  As  to  his  going, 
I'm  persuaded  Lawrence  would  be  uncomfortable  to 
think    that  his  duties  had   been  interfered   with  on  his 


ANT-HILLS.  89 

account ;  and  this  feeling  alone  might  create  a  nervous 
restlessness  that  would  injure  him  physically.  And  then 
as  to  the  coming  back, — why  you  see  we'll  know  the 
way." 

The  coming  back  I  Edith  tried  to  arrange  her  folds 
properly,  but  the  furtive  finger  had  to  clear  away  the  film 
from  the  unlifted  eye,  and  Mrs.  Irvine  did  not  reply.  She 
left  the  room  after  a  little  interval  of  silence, — for  those 
two  words,  "  coming  back,"  had  started  mingled  emotions 
of  hope  and  fear  to  which  she  could  not  have  given  words. 
When  she  returned  again,  her  face  wore  its  usual  bright 
look,  as  she  laid  a  sprig  of  crimson  leaves  in  Zilpha's  lap, 
which  she  had  gathered  from  the  clematis  on  the  porch  ; 
and  it  was  with  a  cheerful  and  steady  voice  she  spoke  of 
the  gorgeous  mountain-sides,  reminding  her,  as  she  smil- 
ingly said,  of  the  curiously  mixed  hues  of  a  cashmere 
shawl. 

The  travellers'  preparations  progressed  rapidly,  and  it 
was  determined  that  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight  they  should 
start.  They  had  so  recently  come  off  a  journey,  that  the 
continuance  of  it  seemed  all  the  easier.  Eunice's  superior 
age  gave  her  a  privilege  she  often  availed  herself  of, — that 
of  administering  checks  to  Josepha's  impatience  over  her 
sewing, — for  there  was  so  much  that  was  novel  and  curi- 
ous to  engage  the  child's  attention,  that  the  tasks  which 
were  set  her, — not  for  the   assistance   such  little  fingers 

4* 


90  SILVERWOOD. 

could  render,  but  to  keep  her  from  habits  of  idleness,  were 
often  sadly  irksome  to  her. 

"  I've  been  wondering,"  she  said,  as  she  sat  one  day- 
near  the  table  at  which  her  brother  was  writing,  hemming 
listlessly  at  a  pocket  handkerchief,  and  receiving  a  sug- 
gestive poke  occasionally,  as  a  hint  to  be  diligent,  from 
Eunice,  who  was  marking  "  L.  I."  in  cross-stitch  on  a  white 
sock, — "  I've  been  wondering  how  you'll  get  along,  brother 
Lawrie,  in  the  West  Indies.  Cousin  Barry  has  been  ask- 
ing me  if  I  didn't  know  they  were  named  '  Antilles'  by 
some  traveller, — I  forget  who, — who  thought  they  were 
more  like  ant-hills  than  anything  else." 

"  I  shall  have  to  disregard  the  Spanish  proverb,  then," 
said  Lawrence,  smiling,  as  he  looked  up  from  his  paper, 
"  and  always  drink  my  glass  of  water  in  the  sun.  But 
pray  don't  let  us  dwell  on  this  feature  of  the  cli- 
mate." 

"  But  do  you  believe  that  was  the  way  those  islands  got 
their  name  ?" 

''  Bryant  and  you  can  settle  that  point.  I'm  not  inclined 
to  push  investigations  in  that  direction." 

"  Bat  even  if  there  are  ants  and  bugs  of  all  kinds  there," 
pursued  the  persevering  child,  "  there's  plenty  of  nice 
things,  too.  I've  been  reading  all  about  the  West  Indies 
in  my  big  Greography,  and  the  fine  fruits  it  tells  about 
make  my  mouth  water." 

"Yes,   brother   Lawrie,"  said   Eunice,    '' you'll^get  so 


ANT-HILLS.  91 

used  to  oranges,  and  limes,  and  plantains,  and  bananas, 
that  our  common  fruits  will  seem  insipid  to  you  when  you 
come  back." 

"  And  you'll  get  plenty  of  guava-jelly,  too.  I  wish  I 
could  go  along,  I  like  good  things  so  much !"  said  Josepha, 
with  a  smack  of  her  red  lips. 

"  Be  sea-sick  and  home-sick  for  the  sake  of  guava- 
jelly  !  Why,  Sepha,  you're  almost  as  bad  as  some  of 
the  old  Romans,  who  used  to  go  to  one  feast,  and  then 
go  home  and  swallow  an  emetic,  that  they  might  be  ready 
for  another." 

''  That  can't  have  been  in  any  of  the  times  I've  been 
reading  about,"  said  Eunice,  incredulously,  whose  present 
penchant  was  a  devotion  to  G-oldsmith's  Rome  ;  "  and  I've 
got  down  as  far  as  Cincinnatus." 

"  Oh,  pray  Eunice,  don't  get  on  to  those  Roman  hills  ! 
Why,  brother  Lawrie,  she  talks  about  them  in  her  very 
sleep.  Last  night  she  was  raving  so  about  some  '  quee?' 
knoll '  or  other,  that  she  wakened  me,  and  I  had  to  shake 
her  to  know  what  was  the  matter,  and  she  said  she  was 
dreaming  she  was  on — " 

"  The  Quirinal,  if  you  please,"  interrupted  Eunice, 
laus^hinsf. 

"  Well,  some  hill  or  other  in  Rome  ;  but  for  my  part  I 
think  my  '  Ant-hills '  are  a  great  deal  more  interresting. 
I  want  to  know  something  more  about  them  ;  so  piomise 


92  SILVERWOOD. 

me,  brother  Lawrie,  that  you'll  write  and  tell  me  whether 
you  really  have  to  strain  all  the  water  you  drink." 

''  You  bid  fair  to  become  an  entomologist,  Sepha,  I  see  ; 
but  yonder  comes  mother,  and  our  sisters,  and  Bryant, 
from  their  walk.  Let  us  go  to  meet  them,  and  watch  the 
sun  sink  behind  Castlehead.  You  can  think  of  me  when 
I  am  in  Cuba,  as  seeing  it  go  down  beneath  the  broad, 
blue  ocean," 


IX. 

|tjfo-J'0iinb  Jfrienbs. 

*'  Poor  ]\Ir.  Irvine  I"  exclaimed  Mrs.  G-rant,  who,  with 
her  t^Yo  daughters,  had  been  paying  her  respects  to  the 
family  at  Silverwood,  and  who  paused  in  the  midst  of 
her  exclamation,  to  return  the  graceful  bow^with  which 
Bryant  had  handed  them  into  their  carriage.  "  Poor  Mr. 
Irvine!"  she  repeated,  pityingly  ;  "  much  use  is  there  in  his 
going  to  the  Havana,  or  anywhere  else  for  his  health ! 
Why,  he's  a  walking  ghost,  with  that  white  face,  already." 

"  But  his  sister  has  a  marble  sort  of  face,  too,  mamma — 
that  one  with  the  black  hair,  I  mean  ;  and  yet  she  don't 
look  like  an  invalid — so  his  want  of  color  may  be  natural. 
How  interesting  his  appearance  is  I — such  large,  half- 
mournful  loolving  eyes,  and  something  so  sweet  in  his 
smile." 

"  Smile  I"  interrupted  Miss  Lettuce  Grant.  '•  I  saw 
no  smile,  nor  heard  scarcely  a  word.  He's  much  too 
motionless  a  piece  of  statuary  for  me." 


94  SILVERWOPD. 

*'Now  J  did,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  G-rant.  "  AVlien  he 
spoke  to  his  mother,  I  couldn't  but  notice  the  beautiful 
expression  tliat  came  over  his  face,  and  that  made  my 
heart  take  to  him  at  once.  Our  young  men  don't  expend 
their  gallantry  much  that  way,  now-a-days.  They  keep 
their  best  manners,  like  their  best  coats,  for  going  abroad 
with." 

"  I  confess  his  cousin,  that  young  Mr.  Woodruff,  took 
my  fancy  a  great  deal  more — something  so  cavalier-like 
in  his  whole  bearing  and  appearance — quite  my  idea  of  a 
Spanish  Don,  with  his  brunette  complexion,  and  raven 
hair,  and  flashing  eyes — only  he's  a  clergyman  ;  what  a 
pity!" 

"  Don't  say  so,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  G-rant.  "  For 
my  part,  I  feel  glad  to  think  that  one  every  way  worthy, 
as  he  seems  to  be,  should  be  willing  to  make  this  con- 
secration of  his  gifts." 

"  But  the  idea  of  such  a  man, — one  who  has  so  much 
refined  courteousness  and  dignity,  and  yet  easy  suavity 
of  manner, — such  a  tone  of  high-breeding,  and,  I  suppDse, 
mind  and  education  to  match, — the  idea  of  such  a  one  giv- 
ing himself  up,  soul  and  body,  to  some  rustic  parish,  for  five 
hundred  a  year,  as  I  dare  say  he  does!  'What  can  he 
do  with  his  ambitious  feelings  ?  He  might  become  emi- 
nent as  a  statesman,  for  there's  that  in  him  that  could 
sway  men." 
[_"  His   ambition   is  to  do  good,"    said  the   easy    Mrs. 


1 


NEW-FOUND   FKIENDS.  95 

Grraiit,  who,  while  she  had  pretty  correct  ideas  herself, 
was  content  to  let  her  daughters  mould  their  own  ;  "  and 
I've  no  doubt  his  life  will  be  a  happier,  more  satisfactory 
one  to  himself,  than  if  he  had  given  it  up  to  politics ;  for 
I  believe  they're  the  ruination  of  many  of  our  young 
men." 

"  I  can't  help  thinking  it's  a  great  waste  of  capital,  not- 
withstanding, mamma,  for  such  a  man  to  enter  the  pulpit. 
Piety  and  zeal  is  all  that  is  required  for  the  plain,  country 
people  to  whom  he  probably  preaches.  So  there's  an  over- 
plus of  talents  that  might  be  turned  to  some  other  ac- 
count." 

"  I  think.  Lettuce,  you  would  not  talk  so,  if  you  had  a 
little  more  piety  yourself." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so.  But  how  did  you  like  the  young 
ladies,  Sara  ?" 

"  Miss  Irvine  has  very  sweet,  composed  manners,  I  think, 
and  such  pretty,  brown,  bird-like  eyes,  that  I  quite  envied 
them.  As  to  the  other  one,  she  was  too  cold — too  still  ; 
indeed,  she  seemed  rather  unsocial." 

"  I'm  sure  she  tried  to  entertain  you,"  said  Mrs.  Grant, 
apologetically  ;  "  but  what  should  strangers,  just  meeting 
for  the  first  time,  have  in  common  ?" 

"  I  reckon  it  was  your  own  fault,  Sara,  for  you  know 
you  generally  wait  to  be  entertained.  Now,  I  got  on  ad- 
mirably with  her,"  continued  Miss  Lettuce  ;  "  we  did  up 
the  mountains,  and  the  mists,  and  '  the  Ruins,'  and  the 


96  SILVERWOOD. 

rainbow-liues  of  the  autumn  landscape,  and  the  cool 
mornings  and  evenings,  and  sunny  noons,  and  so  on,  and 
so  on,  to  perfection." 

''  Just  as  if  she  hadn't  seen  all  these  for  herself  I" 

"  Oh  !  that's  not  it  at  all,  Sara.  Why,  we  don't  say  '  it's 
a  beautiful  day'  to  the  friend  we  meet,  because  we  think 
he  can't  find  that  out  for  himself — it's  rather  to  awaken 
a  mutual  sympathy,  by  touching  upon  what  we're  both 
aware  of.  So  much  for  my  philosophy  of  small  talk.  You 
and  the  old  lady  seemed  to  get  on  finely  too,  mamma.  Ser- 
vants, happily,  are  a  never-failing  topic  with  housekeepers. 
You  were  in  full  cry,  I  perceived,  when  I  gave  you  a  hint 
to  go." 

"  But  she's  not  old,"  said  Mrs.  Grant,  a  little  piqued. 
"  She  is  younger  than  I  am,  I  dare  say  ;  and  what  a  quick, 
elastic  step  she  has !  Different  enough  from  mine  ;  but 
then  she  has  not  been  fighting  the  rheumatism  these  ten 
years,  as  I  have." 

"  With  a  son  who  don't  look  less  than  twenty-four,  or 
thereabouts,  she  may  honestly  be  reckoned  in  the  category 
of  old  folks,"  said  Miss  Lettuce.  "  But  no  reflection  in 
the  world  on  you,  mamma  ;  you  know  we  think  you  belong 
to  the  genus  Amaranthus^  and  that  you  '  flourish  in 
immortal  youth.'  " 

"  How  did  you  find  out  that  Mr.  Woodruff  was  a  cousin 
of  the  Irvines  ?"  asked  Miss  Sara. 

"  I  heard  that  pert  little  girl  call  him  '  Cousin  Barry.'  " 


XEW-FOUXD    FRIEXDS.  97 

*'  Now,  /  didn't  think  she  was  pert,"  said  the  kind 
Mrs.  Grant.  "  She  seemed  like  a  very  proper  child,  and 
only  answered  the  questions  you  put  to  her." 

"  Lettuce  has  a  way  of  making  children  appear  pert, 
whether  they  are  or  not,"  said  Miss  Sara.  "  She  takes  too 
much  notice  of  them.  My  way  is  to  ignore  their  presence 
altogether." 

"  That's  not  the  way  to  make  them  love  you,  my 
dear." 

"  La,  mamma,  who  cares  for  the  love  of  children?  I 
can't  bear  them  to  he  lollinof  on  me,  tumblino^  and  dis- 
arranging  my  dress.  I  leave  all  that  for  Lettuce,  and  I'm 
sure  she's  welcome  to  the  consequences — silks  stained 
with  fruits,  and  crumpled  collars,  and  spoiled  pocket- 
handkerchiefs." 

"  All  true  enough,"  said  Miss  Lettuce  ;  "  but  if  they're 
smart  and  saucy,  I'm  willing  to  pay  the  price  for  the 
amusement  they  afford  me.  I  delight  in  impudent  chil- 
dren, and  if  the  little  Irvine  is'nt  pert,  I  shan't  like  her 
so  well." 

"  Poor  Mr.  Irvine  !"  reiterated  Mrs.  G-rant,  after  she 
had  been  sittinsf  silent  for  some  time.      ''  I  wonder  if  a 

o 

few  bottles  of  that  pure  Catawba  wine  I  had  made  four 
years  ago,  wouldn't  be  nice  for  him  to  take  with  him  on 
his  journey.  These  foreign  wines  one  can't  trust,  they're 
so  full  of  trash." 

"  Ah,  yes.  Let  me  beg  Mrs.  Irvine's  acceptance  of  it  on 


98  SILVKRWOOD. 

your  part,  mamma,"  said  Miss  Lettuce  ;  ''  you  know  you 
think  me  famous  for  my  nicely  turned  periods  in  the  note 
line ;  so,  by  all  means,  let  it  be  sent." 

"  Mother  !"  cried  Josepha,  running  in  breathlessly,  the 
evening  of  this,  same  day,  from  the  lawn  where  she  had 
been  gathering  some  white  and  yellow  fall  chrysanthe- 
mums— "  mother,  there's  a  servant  of  Mrs.  G-rant's  out 
here,  and  he  has  a  champagne-basket  on  his  arm,  and  he 
gave  me  this  note,"  she  added,  thrusting  a  billet  into 
Mrs.  Irvine's  hand.  She  opened  the  note  and  read  it 
aloud  for  the  benefit  of  the  assembled  circle  : 

"  Mrs.  Grrant  begs  that  Mrs.  Irvine  will  do  her  the 
kindness  to  accept,  on  her  son's  behalf,  a  few  bottles  of 
very  pure  Catawba  wine,  of  home  manufacture,  which 
she  hopes  may  be  of  some  service  to  him  on  his  con- 
templated journey.  The  appeal  which  an  invalid  makes 
to  the  sensibility  of  a  stranger's  heart,  must  be  Mrs. 
Grant's  apology  for  assuming  to  herself  thus  much  of  the 
duties  of  commissariat." 

"  How  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Irvine,  with  a  glistening  eye — 
''  how  ki:id  these  Milburne  people  are  !  Yesterday  you  had 
a  bag  of  game  sent  you  from  G-rantley-holm,  Lawrence ; 
and  here  is  evidence  of  another  stranger's  interest  in  you. 
Thase  people  make  us  forget  that  we  are  not  among  old 
friends.     How  kind  I" 


X. 


^it  ^utuinit  3m\mi 


It  was  a  calm,  sweet  Sabbath  morning, — the  last 
Sabbath,  indeed  the  last  day,  our  travellers  were  to  spend 
at  home  ;  for  all  things  were  in  readiness  for  their  de- 
parture on  the  morrow.  In  solemn  stillness — in  a  silence 
"  breathless  with  adoration" — in  an  attitude  expectant 
as  that  of  a  gentle  child  who  bows  with  drooping  head 
and  veiled  eyes  before  the  father  who  is  about  to  bestow 
his  blessing, — so  stood  Nature,  mutely,  that  autumn  Sab- 
bath, beneath   the  benediction  of  G-od  ! 

Mrs.  G-rant  did  not  forget,  in  her  kind-heartedness,  that 
all  the  family  at  Silver  wood  might  not  be  provided  with 
the  means  of  getting  to  church  ;  so  she  had  driven  out 
of  her  way  to  take  some  of  them  up, — her  daughters 
having  determined  upon  a  ride  to  a  country  church  some 
few  miles  distant,  at  which  they  had  heard  Mr.  Woodruff 
was  to  officiate.  Zilpha  and  Eunice  had  taken  advan- 
tage  of    Mrs.   G-rant's  offer  ;    Edith    and   Josepha  went 


100  SILVER  WOOD. 

in  the  little  carriage  with  Bryant ;  while  Lawrence  and 
his  mother  were  left  to  spend  the  morning  alone. 

Beautifully  stood  the  antique,  moss-grown  church,  al- 
most hidden  on  its  sloping  knoll,  among  giant,  white- 
branched  sycamores,  and  stalwart  oaks,  and  mountain 
ashes — the  heroic  remnants  of  the  primeval  forest,  which, 
like  the  race  whose  council-fires  they  may  have  shaded, 
alone  remained  to  give  token  of  former  glory.  A  stream 
of  clear  water  crossed  the  road,  just  at  the  foot  of  the 
knoll  on  which  this  old  structure,  dating  away  back  to 
colonial  times,  reared  its  venerable  walls.  A  steep  roof, 
with  wide,  projecting  eves,  windows  and  doors  scattered 
about  with  not  much  reference  to  symmetry,  an  out.^ide 
covered  stairway,  all  combined  to  make  it  a  most  quaint- 
looking  pile.     Around  it, 

*'  Where  heaved  the  turf  in  many  a  mouUlering  heap," 

slept  the  past  generations  who  had  worshipped  there  ; 
while  an  occasional  mound  of  fresh  clay,  that  contrasted 
strangely  with  those  old  graves,  was  interspersed  among 
them.  G-rey,  mossy  slabs,  wept  upon  many  a  year  by 
the  leaves  drooping  above,  till  their  inscriptions  were 
scarcely  legible,  were  to  be  seen  brightened  now  by  a  life 
singularly  at  variance  with  the  tale  of  decay  which  they 
told  ;  for  little,  merry-eyed  children  were  sitting  upon 
them,  pulling  away  the  long,  dry  grass  from  their  sides, 
or  blowino^  the  down  from  the  thistles  that  had  thrust 


I  AN   AUTUMN   SERMON.   <-' ^    ,',    ]       ]   l^^Wl',' 

\  ->/''•,•••'',.'' 

tliemselves  sturdily  up  among  the  neglected  tomb- 
stones. 

A  few  handsome  carriages  stood  about  among  the 
trees,  with  comfortable-looking,  shiny-faced  drivers  lolling 
lazily  on  their  seats.  ►Saddle-horses  were  picketed  here 
and  there,  and  groups  of  young  people  sat  upon  the  logs 
that  seemed  to  have  been  placed  there  for  the  purpose, 
exchanging  neighborhood  civilities  and  news.  It  was  all 
rather  a  novel  sight  to  Edith  and  Josepha  ;  and  as  the 
latter  caught  the  pleasant  hum  of  conversation,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  occasional  outbreak  of  laughter,  she  turned 
whisperingly  to  her  sister,  and  wondered  if  they  "  were 
talking  Sunday  talk." 

Impish-looking  little  negro  boys  were  playing  pranks 
oLi  one  another,  around  the  entrance  to  the  covered  stair- 
way, and  receiving,  in  return,  sundry  suggestive  cuffs 
from  an  old  ^'  aunty"  with  a  gay  turban  surmounted  by  a 
bonnet  as  venerable  in  appearance  as  herself.  Josepha 
watched  them  with  no  small  amusement,  quite  forgetful 
of  the  admonitions  she  had  mentally  been  administering 
to  the  people  about  her  a  few  moments  before. 

The  Misses  Grrant,  accompanied  by  a  pair  of  attendant 
cavaliers,  were  not  long  in  seeking  out  our  little  party. 
The  gay  Miss  Lettuce,  and  the  more  stately  Miss  Sara, 
each  in  their  own  fashion,  offered  their  quota  of  entertain- 
ment to  Edith  and  Mr.  AYoodrulT,  while  they  were  await- 
ing the  assembling  of  the  congregation  ;  but  neither  of 


109.  SILVERWOOD. 

tlie  latter  were  in  a  mood  to  be  amused  by  the  piquant 
reminiscences  of  the  old  pastor,  with  wliich  Miss  Lettuce 
furnished  them.  He  himself  was  soon  seen  approaching  ; 
and,  after  his  innumerable  greetings  had  been  gone 
through  with — a  ceremony,  however,  which  occupied  no 
little  time — Mr.  Woodruff  and  he  took  their  seats  in  the 
pulpit,  at  which  signal  the  knots  of  talkers  broke  up ; 
the  congregation  poured  in  through  the  several  doors,  and 
and  the  stairway  echoed  with  the  heavy  tramp  of  the 
servants  that  crowded   up  it. 

High-backed  pews,  guiltless  of  paint  or  varnish,  but 
time-stained  to  the  richness  of  a  "  Vandyke  brown,"  al- 
most hid  the  worshippers,  whose  heads  only  were  visible 
in  their  quaint  recesses.  But  the  invocation  went  up 
just  as  acceptably  as  if  it  had  ascended  through  fretted 
roof;  and  the  holy  psalm,  though  sung  for  the  most  part 
by  untrained  voices,  was  not  therefore  the  less  sweet,  as 
the  wind  caught  up  its  lingering  notes,  and  whispered 
them  over  again  among  the  swaying  tree-tops.  The 
silent  congregation  listened  reverently  to  the  message 
which  the  young  stranger  had  to  convey  to  them.  Oc- 
casionally, their  attention  was  diverted  by  the  passing 
round  of  the  grizzly-headed  black  sexton,  with  a  tin- 
handled,  tin-bound  cocoa-nut  ladle  of  water,  which  ever 
and  anon  he  replenished  from  the  brass-hooped,  wooden 
pail  that  stood  on  the  bench  beneath  the  pulpit.  Once, 
Josepha's  risibilities  were  severely  tried,  as  a  little  child,  who 


AN  AUTUMN  SERMON.  103 

was  likely  to  be  overlooked  in  the  general  watering,  cried 
out,  at  the  top  of  its  voice, — "  Me,  too,  Uncle  Jake  !~me, 
too  !"  Moreover,  the  perfect  nonchalance  with  which  a 
little  girl  would  now  and  then  walk  up  to  the  water- 
pail,  and  supply  her  wants  for  herself,  was  quite  astonish- 
ing to  one  whose  ideas  of  church  decorum  forbade  the 
unclosing  of  the  pew   door  till  the   service  was  over. 

Edith  thought  she  had  never  rightly  appreciated,  be- 
fore, the  exceeding  beauty,  and  eloquence,  and  poetry  of 
the  chapter  which  Bryant  read  from  the  Prophet  Isaiah; 
and  she  wondered  more  and  more,  why  clergymen  should 
give  so  little  attention  to  the  cultivation  of  the  art  of  fine 
reading.  She  remembered  that  the  greatest  actress  of 
her  own,  or  perhaps  any  age,  never  felt  prepared  to 
render,  with  perfect  expression,  and  with  satisfaction  to 
herself,  her  favorite  character  in  Shakspeare,  without  a 
fresh  reading  and  study  of  it  before  every  representation. 
And  why,  she  thought  to  herself,  why  should  those  who 
ought  to  seek  to  give  a  grander  rendering,  if  possible,  to 
the  infinitely  more  rapt  and  eloquent  apostrophes  of 
Scripture,  content  themselves  to  slur  them  over  in  a  slo- 
venly way,  and  in  a  monotonous  tone,  that,  so  far  as  they 
can,  do  away  with  any  effect  whatsoever.  Not  so  did 
her  cousin  do  his  part.  He  added  not  a  word  of  explana- 
tion or  comment  ;  and  yet,  as  he  read,  a  new  meaning 
burned  along  the  sacred  page.  The  fire  of  a  fervid,  chas- 
tened rhetoric  glowed  beneath  the  crucible  that  held  the 


10-i  SILVER  WOOD. 

divine  truth,  and  it  flowed  forth  like  a  stream  of  molten 
gold.  How  many  a  sermon  had  she  heard  that  had 
failed  to  convey  any  such  impression  as  the  simple,  but 
masterly  rendering — for  it  was  more  than  mere  reading 
— of  that  beautiful  chapter  ! 

"  A¥e  all  do  fade  as  a  leaf,  and  our  iniquities,  like  the 
wind,  have  taken  us  away,"  was  the  appropriate  text  for 
that  autumn  Sabbath  morning. 

" — We  all  do  fade,"  continued  the  young  minister,  after 
he  had  brought  the  more  didactic  part  of  his  sermon  to  a 
close.  "  From  the  morning  in  which  Adam  passed  out  of 
the  gates  of  Paradise,  with  Eve's  hand,  trembling  under 
the  new  consciousness  of  sin,  within  his  own,  to  the  ris- 
ing of  this  day's  sun,  that  must  have  slanted  its  beams 
for  the  first  time,  across  the  short  mound  I  see  through 
yonder  open  door,  fresh  with  the  up-turned  sod  of  yester- 
day,— '  we  all  do  fade.'  Earth's  surface  is  furrowed  with 
graves — earth's  soil  is  rich  with  the  spoils  of  humanity. 
Life's  battle-ground,  broad  as  the  world,  where  myriads 
of  hearts  have  bled,  and  struggled,  and  suffered,  and  con- 
quered, and  perished, — is  no  less  a  battle-ground,  because 
the  ease  and  comfort,  and  provision  of  the  present,  like 
the  waving  corn  that  nods  over  the  sod  where  nations 
have  striven,  and  where  every  hand  breadth  of  turf  covers 
a  grave,  hides  the  fact,  the  unrealized  fact,  from  our 
vision.  It  is  not  only  where  we  have  the  strife  of  the 
warrior,    'the    confused    noise,    the    garments    rolled    in 


AN   AUTUMN   SERMON.  105 

blood,' — that  the  ^Yasting  goes  on :  it  is  not  only  in  the 
populous  city,  amicl  whose  heats,  and  poverty,  and 
wretchedness,  disease  finds  ready  food  :  it  is  not  only  on 
the  wide  deep,  whose  gaping  jaws  swallow  down  the 
frantic  crowd  with  the  death-shriek  on  their  lips:  it  is 
not  only  along  life's  worn  highways,  where  the  weary 
travellers  faint  and  fail  under  their  heavy  burdens  ;— -but 
in  the  most  secluded  by-paths,  along  'the  cool  seques- 
tered vales,'  beside  the  rural  hearth,  in  the  forest 
home,  in  the  loneliest  hut  of  the  wilderness, — goes  on, 
just  as  steadily,  resistlessly,  and  surely,  this  inevitable, 
inexorable  fading  away.  I  see  it  on  the  brow  of  that 
child  before  me ;  I  feel  it, — nature's  own  instinct, — in  the 
needed  relaxation  of  these  vigorous  muscles :" — and  the 
spealcer  clenched  his  hands  tightly,  and  flung  wide  his 
arms,  and  dilated  his  tall  figure,  till,  to  his  audience,  it 
seemed  an  impersonation  of  manly  strength  and  beauty, 
untouched  by  a  suspicion  of  decay.  "  I  am  taught  it  by 
those  silver  hairs,"  he  continued, — '^  that  tottering  step, — 
this  bended  form, — those  funeral  weeds, — these  time- 
worn  thresholds,  over  which  have  passed  generations  of 
feet  that  shall  cross  them  no  more  I  Yea,  '  we  oAl  do 
fade.'  " 

'' '  As  a  leaf.'  There  was  a  time, — -creation's  sinless 
morning-time, — when,  through  all  the  solitudes  of  earth's 
mighty  forests, — among  all  its  myriads  upon  myriads  of 
whispering  trees — not  a  stain,  not  a  speck  of  decay  dark- 

a 


103  SILVERWOOD. 

ened  upon  the  most  liidden  leaf.  But  the  frost  of  sin 
breathed  over  the  world,  and  lo !  the  change  !  Canker- 
spots  overspread  the  fan*  green, — the  notched  edges  shrivel, 
— ^the  foot-stalk  groves  sickly, — its  hold  on  the  parent 
stem  loosens,  and  gives  way, — it  is  whirled  upon  the 
bosom  of  some  turbid  stream,  or  blown  out  of  the  sight  of 
day  into  some  rocky  crevice.  And  thus,  in  unfailing  suc- 
cession, nature's  and  humanity's  leaf-fall  have  kept  pace, 
from  the  moment  of  sin's  first  blight,  to  the  trembling 
flutter  of  the  sear  foliage  of  to-day,  over  the  fresh  graves 
yonder. 

y  See  !  " — he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  a  withered  leaf 
that  rustled  along  the  floor  of  the  aisle — "  thus  '  our 
iniquities,  like  the  wind,  have  taken  us  away  I'  Look  at 
that  helpless  thing !" — and  he  leaned  over  the  pulpit  with 
his  eye  earnestly  watching  it;  "look  at  it  in  the  in- 
visible grasp  that  is  hurrying  it  hither  and  thither,  lifting 
and  tossing  it  at  its  will,  dashing  it  down,  and  sweeping 
it  at  length  away  into  some  mouldy  nook,  to  lie  forgotten 
forever !  "What  innate  power  is  there  here," — he  still 
pointed  to  the  whirling  leaf,  and  every  eye  followed  the 
guidance  of  his  finger, — "  to  resist  the  mighty  impulse  that 
can  rock  these  deep-rooted  oaks  ?  Just  so  much,  ah  I 
helpless  heart !  as  tJwu  hast,  to  struggle,  unaided,  against 
thine  own  tempestuous  passions  and  sins,  that  '  as  the 
wind,  have  taken  thee  away  !'  But  the  wind  may  be 
hnshed.    There  is  One  who  '  holds  it  in  His  fist,'  who  can 


AX   AUTUMN   SERMON.  107 

say  to  it — '  Peace !  be  still  ! '  There  is  One  who  has 
struggled  through  a  life  of  toil,  of  obedience,  of  humilia- 
tion, of  agony,  even  to  death,  that  He  might  win  the  right 
to  stay  that  rough  wind,  to  turn  its  fury  against  his  own 
bosom,  to  gather  up  the  broken  leaf,  and  renew  its  blasted 
powers,  and  make  it  bright  with  immortality,  and  bind  it 
into  the  chaplet  that  shall  encircle  the  brow  that  once 
ached  under  the  pressure  of  the  thorns.  Ye  must  fall, 
for  all  have  shared  the  blight  of  sin.  What  will  ye, 
friends  ?  Shall  Jesus  snatch  you  from  the  clutch  of  the 
destroying  whirlwind,  and  graft  you  on  to  the  tree  of 
righteousness,  from  whose  leaves  He  is  to  weave  His 
crown  ?" 

"  — Mr.  Woodruff's  sermon  was  admirably  suited  to  a 
rural  audience,"  remarked  Miss  Lettuce  G-rant  to  Edith, 
whose  heart  still  vibrated  under  the  pathetic  tone  of  the 
closing  question,  as  they  passed  from  the  church — '•  such 
apt  illustration, — so  naturally  suggested  by  the  falling 
leaves,  and  all  that.  Pretty  conceit  that  of  the  chaplet. 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  my  hands  full  of  red,  maple  leaves,  and 
was  tying  them  together  with  withered  tufts  of  grass." 

Edith  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  She  was  thinking  of 
the  further  illustration  the  volatile  girl  beside  her  was 
furnishing—of  the  empty  puffs  of  vanity  that  would  be 
likely  to  sweep  away  all  the  salutary  impressions  which 
the  sermon  was  calculated  to  make.  "  Will  it  do  no  more 
good  than  this  ?"  she  sighed  to  herself;  but,  just  then,  she 


108  SILVER  WOOD. 

saw  an  old  negro  stoop  and  pick  up  a  withered  leaf,  that 
was  whirling  along  the  path  before  him,  and  ponder  it  as 
if  it  had  been  a  printed  page,  while  he  held  it  spread 
upon  his  open  palm.  There  was  something  to  encourage 
her  in  the  simple  action.  That  narrow  mind  had  perhaps 
accepted  and  understood  the  lesson  which  had  escaped 
the  refined  and  educated,  but  thoughtless  listener  at  her 
side. 

"  Cousin  Bryant,"  said  Edith,  as  once  again  seated 
in  the  little  carriage,  the  trio  pursued  their  way  home- 
ward— "  you  cannot  Jcnow  how  your  words,  about  the 
withering  leaves,  went  home  to  my  heart,  Lawrence  is  so 
like  one.  See,  for  example,  those  crimson  gums  and  yel- 
low hickories,  how  much  more  beautiful  they  are  than 
before  they  were  touched  by  the  frost.  So  my  brother 
seems :  there  is  a  spiritual  light  and  loveliness,  at  times, 
about  his  smile,  that  pierces  me  like  a  dart." 

"  Hope  for  the  best,  Edith :  the  trees  you  are  pointing 
out,  will  all  be  covered  with  their  healthy  green  next 
spring." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  just  such  comfort  as  our  Saviour  offered 
to  Martha,  and  I  ought  to  be  content  with  it ;  but  I  want 
the  present  assurance  she  craved ;  I  want  the  leaves  green 
nowy 

"  That  must  be  as  Grod  chooses.  He  went  beyond 
Martha's  expectations  ;  He  may  do  the  same  for  you  ;  He 
can  heal  the  stain  of  decay,  and,  if  He  see  best,  let  us 


AN  AUTUMN  SERMON.  109 

rest  assured  He  will.  '  Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all  the 
earth  do  right  ?'  What  could  be  fuller  of  consolatory- 
truth,  than  such  an  appeal  ?  It  surely  ought  to  be  a  pil- 
low for  the  most  aching  head.  Can  you  not  find  repose 
for  yours  on  it  ?" 

"  Yes — at  times,  perfect :  even  a  repose  that' has  joy  in 
it ;  and  then  I  can  echo  Madame  Gruyon's  feeling — 

'  "Wishing  fits  not  my  condition, — 
Acquiescence  suits  me  best.' 

"  But  the  mood  changes  again  :  the  tempest  of  distrust 
rises  in  my  heart,  and  my  anchor-hold  of  that  truth  is 
loosened.  What  it  seemed  easy  to  say  in  the  calm,  are 
but  idle  words  in  the  storm." 

''  But  if  you  would  only  remember  who  is  at  the  helm, 
and  even  when  you  could  not  see,  stretch  your  hand  of 
faith  through  the  darkness,  and  find  it  met  by  that  of  the 
unerring  Pilot — " 

"  Yes — if  I  could  always  do  this,  and  feel  this  ;  but  un- 
questioning submission — how  hard  it  is  ! " 

Lawrence  and  his  mother  has  passed  a  sweet,  sad 
Sabbath  together.  They  had  gathered  and  laid  up  a 
store  of  mutual  memories,  which  were  to  be  the  honeyed 
hive  from  whence  to  draw  comfort  in  the  hours  of  separa- 
tion or  disappointment  that  were  before  them.  They  had 
held  converse,  such  as  is  not  often  held  this  side  heaven, 
for  they  were  so  soon  to  part.    This  darling  son,  this  eldest 


110  SILVERWOOD. 

born,  this  prop  on  wliicli,  through  her  years  of  widow- 
hood, this  mother  had  learned  to  lean,  was  to  be  taken 
away  for  a  time,  whether  to  be  returned  to  her  as  her 
earthly  support  still,  she  could  not  know.  And  he,  the 
loving,  confiding,  yet  reserved  youth,  who  shrank  to  a 
fault,  from  intimate  companionship  with  those  of  his  own 
sex  and  age,  as  if  nothing  less  than  woman's  delicacy  and 
purity  would  satisfy  his  refined  nature ;  who  had  turned 
from  very  boyhood  to  his  mother  for  so  much  of  heart- 
support  as  the  human  can  give — with  what  an  aching 
fullness  of  reverence,  and  trust  and  devotion,  he  had  laid 
his  head  on  the  lap  that  had  pillowed  it  in  infancy, 
none  who  sat  round  the  parlor  fire  that  night,  knew.  The 
sacredness  of  those  innermost  feelings  was  not  marred  by 
what  would  have  been  at  best  but  a  stammering  and 
inadequate  utterance  of  them.  Rather  did  he  prefer  to 
lie  silent  and  apparently  emotionless  on  the  sofa,  where  his 
mother  sat  scarcely  less  silent  than  himself,  threading  her 
fingers  through  his  long  locks  of  auburn  hair. 

At  the  hour  for  evening  prayers,  even  Zilpha's  sweet 
and  serene  composure  almost  forsook  her  for  a  moment,  as 
her  brother  begged  that,  although  it  was  Sabbath  evening, 
she  would  open  the  piano,  and  accompany  their  hymn 
with  a  particular  air  he  designated.  At  first  her  fingers 
glided  tremulously  over  the  Iveys,  but  she  very  quickly 
mastered  her  emotion,  and,  in  a  rich,  clear  voice,  assisted, 
however,  only  by  Bryant  and  the  children,  sang  the 
verses  for  which  Lawrence  had  asked : 


AX  AUTUMN   SEEMOX.  Ill 


THE    SYMPATHY   OF    JESUS. 

The  sympathy  of  Jesus  ! — who 

That  ever  sobbed  one  sorrowing  moan 
On  some  kind  bosom,  fondly  true,  — 

Some  human  bosom,  like  our  own, 
And  felt  how  much  those  lips,  close  prest, 

That  hand  close-clasped,  could  calm  our  feais- 
Can  turn  to  His  far  tenderer  breast, 

"Without  a  gush  of  thankful  tears  ! 

The  earthly  heart  on  which  we  lean 

May  have  its  separate  griefs  to  bear  ; 
Griefs,  though  unspoken  and  unseen, 

Yet  rankling  all  the  deeper  there. 
Its  faltering  strength  may  scarce  sustain 

The  torture  of  its  own  distress  ; 
And  still  we  add  our  burdening  pain. 

Unconscious  how  the  weight  may  press. 

But  He  whose  human  feet  have  trod 

Earth's  hills  and  valleys, — He  who  knew 
N-)  sympathy  but  that  of  God, 

Though  linked  with  all  that  craved  it,  too — 
Knows  all  our  yearning,  all  our  need. 

Yet  strong  to  bear  our  utmost  smart, — 
He  loves  to  feel  the  throbbing  head 

Close  laid  against  His  pitying  heart. 

To  think  that  on  the  tlirone  of  thrones, 

He  wears  our  lowly  nature  still  ! 
To  think  that  midst  the  loftiest  tones 

That  through  the  eternal  mansions  thrill, 


112  SILVERWOOD. 

Earth's  humblest  pleader  He  will  hear. 
Though  only  tears  his  anguish  tell ; 

That  sobbing  voice  falls  on  his  ear 
More  sweet  than  Gabriel's  ever  fell  f 

Then,  sorrowing  spirit !  take  the  grief 

Thou  ne'er  to  mortal  couldst  disclose. 
And  He  will  give  thee  sure  relief, 

Touched  with  the  feeling  of  thy  woes  ; 
And  thou  shalt  understand  how  sweet, 

How  filled  with  more  than  human  bliss 
How  dear — how  tender — how  complete 

The  sympathy  of  Jesus  is  ! 


Bryant  read  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  John's  gospel — 
a  favorite  passage,  he  knew,  of  Mrs.  Irvine's  ;  and  as  his 
full,  musical  tones  lingered  over  those  beautiful  words, — 
*'  Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I  give  unto  you  : 
not  as  the  world  giveth,  give  T  unto  you.  Let  not 
3^our  heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  be  afraid," — a 
heavenly  calm  diffused  itself  over  every  one  present. 
The  touching  remonstrance  of  the  suffering  Saviour  had 
never  come  with  more  pleading  pathos  to  their  souls ;  and 
as,  in  his  closing  prayer,  Bryant  repeated  the  sacred  words 
— "  we  iviU  not  let  our  hearts  be  troubled,  beloved  Ee- 
deemer  I — we  ivill  not  let  them  be  afraid" — each  kneeler 
inwardly  responded,  ''  amen  I" 


II. 


The  travelling  carriage  was  at  the  door  ;  the  early 
breakfast  was  over  ;  Zilpha  was  bonneted  and  shawled ; 
and  Mrs.  Irvine  was,  for  the  dozenth  time,  arranging 
Lawrence's  muffler  about  his  throat  and  breast,  and  re- 
iterating her  counsels  to  take  every  possible  care  of 
himself,  with  a  voice  that  strove  its  utmost  to  be  clear 
and  steady.  Edith  could  not  trust  herself  to  look  fully 
at  her  brother  and  sister  ;  and  she  nervously  occupied 
herself  in  selecting  from  a  pile  that  lay  upon  the  table, 
such  "  magazines"  and  "  reviews"  as  might  furnish 
them  with  agreeable  vv^ayside  reading.  The  children 
were  flitting  about  the  carriage,  making  all  comfortable, 
packing  away  the  wrappings  and  carpet-bags  which 
Uncle  Felix  had  tumbled  in,  without  much  reference  to 
the  convenience  of  the  travellers. 

"  What's  this  in  the  carriage  pocket  ?"  asked  Josepha, 
thrusting  her  hand    as   she  spoke,  into  its  depths,  and 
5# 


114  SILVERWOOD. 

bringing  up  a  brown  paper  package,  tied  with  a  white 
woolen   string. 

"  Why,  Miss  Josey,  you  see,"  began  Uncle  Felix,  in  a 
deprecating  tone,  ^'  I  thought  Mas'  Lawrence  moughtn't 
'ject  to  a  few  'simmons,  jes'  to  eat  on  de  road,  like. 
Dey's  mighty  nice  now ;  de  frost's  took  all  de  bitter  out 
of  'em.  I  mind  ole  Mas'  Henry,  your  pa',  used  to  say 
dey  was  enough  better  nor  yer  boughten  figs." 

"And  what's  in  this  other  pocket?" 

"Oh,  jes'  a  few  red-cheeked  apples  I  got  at  Mas'  Sam. 
Roberts'  yisterday,  when  I  went  to  see  my  ole  woman  : 
she's  cook  dere,  you  know.  I  'spected,  maybe.  Miss 
Zilphy   would  like   some   of  'em." 

"  Well,  Aunt  Rose,"  asked  Eunice,  as  the  old  cook 
made  her  appearance  from  behind  the  corner  of  the  house, 
"what  have  you   got  in  that  little  calico  bag?" 

"  Dey's  some  blackberries  I  dried  in  de  summer  ;  and  I 
allers  heerd  dey's  so  oncommon  good  for  folks  as  is  got 
weak  stomachs,  like  poor  Mas'  Lawrence.  Jes'  slip  'em 
in  somewhere  ;  dey  won't  take  much  room,  honey,"  she 
said,   handing  them  up  to   Josepha. 

"  But,  indeed,  Aunt  Ross,  there'll  be  so  much  to  carry. 
When  they  get  on  the  cars,  they'll  be  sure  to  lose  some  of 
the  things.     See  ;  here  are  Daphne's  chestnuts,  too." 

"  La,  Miss  Josey,"  said  Daphne,  "  Miss  Zilphy  and 
Mas'  Bryant  can  eat  'em  clean  up  befo'  dey  gits  to  de  cars. 
And  dese  flowers,  dey  wont  take  up  no  room  at  all  'most. 


THE  NEW   GOVERNESS  AND  HER  PUPILS.  113 

Dey's  de  very  las'  in  de  garden.  Please  stick  'em  up 
somewhere.  It'll  be  mighty  easy  to  throw  'em  away 
when  dey  withers." 

"  Can't  you  bring  something,  too,  Homer  ?"  inquired 
Josepha,  jestingly,  of  a  little  negro  boy — Aunt  Rose's 
son,  who  was  swinging  on  the  trunk-rack.  Homer,  un- 
derstanding the  question  as  a  hint  for  him  to  furnish  his 
quota,  scampered  off  as  fast  as  his  bare  feet  would  carry 
him,  and  in  a  little  time  returned  with  a  rimless  straw 
hat,  which  he  held  up  to  the  carriage  window. 

*'  Here  be  some  wa'nuts,  Miss  Josey  :  aint  got  nuffin' 
better." 

Josepha  laughed,  and  told  him  he  should  keep  them, 
and  crack  them  for  himself ;  that  they  would  not  be  good 
for  his  Master   Lawrence. 

The  partings  in  the  parlor  were  over  ;  and  Lawrence, 
pale,  but  externally  calm,  shook  hands  silently  with  the 
servants,  and,  stepping  into  the  carriage,  flung  his  arms 
around  his  little  sister,  and  kissed  her  over  and  over 
again  with  an  emotion  very  unusual  in  him.  The  pent-up 
feeling  would  have  way,  and  upon  her  it  expended  itself. 
As  Uncle  Felix  lifted  her  to  the  ground,  there  were  tears 
even  on  that  sunny  cheek,  which  was  rarely  known  to 
own  any  acquaintance  with  sorrow.  While  Zilpha  and 
Edith  were  exchanging  some  last  words,  Mrs.  L'vine  could 
not  forbear  one  more  look,  one  more  embrace,  as  she 
rested  upon  the  carriage  steps,  and  with  another  fervent 


116  ■  SILVEEWOOD, 

"  God  bless  you,  my  darling  son  !"  reached  forward,  and, 
sobbing,  held  him  to  her  bosom. 

All  I  what  tears  we  shed — what  anguish  we  endure — 
what  heart-rendings  we  experience, — all,  through  our 
inability  to  look  into  the  dim  future  !  We  smile  in  our 
partings  sometimes,  when  the  lifting  of  the  veil  shows  us 
we  should  have  wept ;  and  again  we  weep,  when,  had  we 
but  known  the  issue,  we  would  have  smiled.  Yet,  G-od 
be  blessed  for  this  close  curtaining?  of  the  future  !  Of 
what  a  double  agony  does  it  spare  us  the  endurance — the 
agony  of  watching  the  sure  and  steady  coming  of  the 
dreaded  evil,  heightened  and  intensified  by  long  anticipa- 
tion, superadded  to  a  certainty  terrible  and  inexorable  as 
death  !  And  of  what  a  zest  would  it  rob  our  joy  I — 
No  pleasures  multiplied  by  being  unlocked  for — no  delight 
that  had  not  lost  all  its  purple  bloom  by  being  turned 
a  thousand  times  over  in  the  mind — no  rapture  whose 
draught  had  not  been  diminished  by  many  prelibations  ! 

Edith  was  the  last  one  to  whom  Bryant  said  farewell. 
He  pressed  her  trembling  hand  between  both  of  his ; 
looked  with  gentle  sympathy  upon  the  averted  face,  so 
full  of  grief;  and  then,  passing  his  arm  about  her  in  a 
momentary  embrace — as  was  his  kinsman's  ])rivilege — 
stepped  into  the  carriage,  gave  the  signal  to  the  driver, 
and  they  were  gone. 

Poor  Edith  !  As  she  laid  her  hand  caressingly  that 
night  upon  her  sister's  deserted  pillow,  she  did  not  forget 


I 


THE   XEW   GOVERNESS   AND   HER   PUPILS  117 

to  think  over  his  kind  good-bye.  It  is  so  sweet  to  helieve 
in  our  fellow-creatures'  affection  ;  so  she  put  away  among 
her  heart's  private  treasures,  that  bit  of  tender  memory. 

The  occupation  of  the  mind  and  the  hands  with  present 
duty,  Mrs.  Irvine  had  always  inculcated,  as  one  of  the 
best  safe-guards  and  protections  against  the  ingress  of 
sorrowful  thoughts.  "  There  is,"  she  was  accustomed 
to  say,  in  her  aphoristic  way — and  her  own  happy  Chris- 
tian philosophy  spared  her  many  an  hour  of  anxiety 
and  ennui — "there  is  some  task  set  for  every  moment's 
performance.  AYe  cannot  do  to-morrow  the  duties  of  the 
wasted  to-day  ;  for  to-morrow's  hours  are  filled  with  their 
own  requirements.  "We  cannot  eat  nor  sleep  for  to-mor- 
row, without  a  protest  from  nature  for  the  transgression 
of  her  laws.  Sufficient  unto  each  day  is  the  good  and 
the  evil  thereof."  And  when  Edith  (for  Zilpha  was  not 
prone  to  do  it)  would  sometimes  allude  regretfully  to  the 

past,  and  to  the  delightful  home  at  B ,  which  had 

been  so  suddenly  swept  from  them — to  the  ease  and  even 
luxury  of  her  mother's  early  years — to  her  native  taste 
for  society,  her  peculiar  fitness  for  it,  and  her  large  sym- 
pathies, that  required  something  more  than  their  present 
limited  range  for  their  outgoing  :  contrasting  all  this 
with  the  sombre  aspect  of  Silverwood — the  absence  of 
many  comforts  to  which  they  had  always  been  accus- 
tomed— and  above  all,  the  now  broken  family  circle — 
how  cheerfully  would  Mrs.  Irvine  put  all  these  regrets  by, 


118  SILVERWOOD. 

with  the  simple  repetition  of  the  noble  exclamation  of 
Job  :  "  "What  !  shall  we  receive  good  at  the  hand  of  the 
Lord,  and  shall  we  not  receive  evil  I"  or,  with  the  familiar 
lines  of  the  old  poet : 

"  My  mind  to  mc  a  kingdom  is, 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  find, 
As  far  exceeds  all  earthly  bliss 

That  God  or  Nature  hath  assigned  : 
Though  much  I  want,  that  most  would  have, 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave." 

And  so  she  did  not  sit  down  with  folded  hands,  in  the 
now  lonely  home,  going  back  in  the  indulgence  of  a  seduc- 
tive grief,  to  him  who  had  been  the  sunlight  of  her  heart, 
who  had  made  the  walls  around  her  echo  to  his  boyhood's 
mirth,  or  dwelling  with  the  minuteness  in  which  sorrow 
revels,  on  the  solitary  death-bed  in  that  very  chamber, 
where,  because  it  ivas  his  death-chamber,  she  loved  the 
better  to  lie  ;  nor  did  she  weary  and  sicken  her  spirit, 
and  waste  its  resources,  by  studying  over  and  over  again 
the  shadows  that  had  been  gathering  one  by  one  above 
the  home-picture,  which,  but  a  few  months  before,  poor 
Lawrence  had  been  rejoicing  in  as  so  bright.  The  altered 
circumstances  of  the  family  rendered  exertion  necessary, 
and  the  fingers,  whose  delicacy  might  once  have  shrunk 
from  the  scarce  lady-like  occupation,  now  plied  the  busy 
needle  as  she  bent  over  some  coarse  garment  for  Uncle 
Felix,   or  Homer.     The  smile  of  hopeful  endurance  was 


THE   NEW   GOVERNESS  AND   HER   PUPILS.  119 

still  over  her  face  ;  the  expression  of  unquestioning  acqui- 
escence ever  upon  her  lips. 

''  It  grieves  me,  my  daughter,"  she  said  one  day  to 
Edith,  who,  since  the  departure  of  the  travellers,  had 
drooped  sadly ;  "it  grieves  me  that  you  should  give  way 
to  depression,  and  lose  your  interest  in  what  is  around 
you.  Do  you  know  you  worried  me  this  morning,  when 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grarrett  were  making  their  visit  here,  by 
your  monosyllabic  replies  to  their  remarks  ?" 

"  I'm  very  sorry  I  should  have  done  so,  mother ; 
but  one  can't  feel  interested  just  at  once  in  perfect 
strangers.  Their  visit  was  a  sort  of  matter-of-course, 
because  we  are  henceforth  to  be  included  in  the  society  of 
Milburne." 

"It  is  a  happier  thing,  even  for  ourselves,  always  to 
put  the  best  construction  on  the  actions  of  people  that 
they  will  bear.  jN'ow,  I  prefer  to  believe  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  G-arrett  were  actuated  by  more  than  mere  politeness 
and  regard  to  the  rules  of  society,  in  coming  to  see  us. 
I  think  kindness  made  them  do  it." 

"  AYell,  I  dare  say  you  are  right,  mother ;  you  always 
are.  Forgive  me  that  I  gave  you  a  moment's  annoyance, 
and  I'll  try  and  err  in  this  way  no  more.  From  ex- 
perience, I  know  that  employment  is  one  of  the  very  best 
medicines  for  the  mind." 

"  Yes  ;  the  curse  pronounced  on  Adam  has  always 
seemed  to  me,  in  our  restless  and  sinful  condition,  a  dis- 


120  SILVEEWOOD. 

guised  blessing.  How  men's  passions  would  prey  on 
themselves,  and  on  each  other,  if  they  were  not  compelled 
in  the  sweat  of  their  brows  to  earn  their  bread  !" 

"  Well,  then,  as  to  regular  occupation,  mother,  Eunice 
and  Josepha  have  been  running  wild,  as  far  as  studies 
are  concerned — " 

"  I  think  you  must  do  Eunice  the  justice  to  allow  that 
her  devotion  to  Roman  history  has  been  pretty  steady. 
Why,  I  found  the  child  absorbed  in  the  pages  cf  Arnold 
this  morning," 

"Yes,  mere  reading;  but  study  is  a  different  thing, 
and  neither  of  them  have  loolced  into  a  book  for  that 
purpose  since  we  left  home.  You  see,  mother,  I  can't 
think  this  is  home.  AYith  that  word,  my  thoughts  always 
go  back  to  B ." 

"And  yet  how  kindly  we  have  been  received  here! 
Remember  Mrs.  G-rant's  wine,  and  Mrs.  Grrantley's  part- 
ridges, and  the  ready-dressed  dinner  sent  all  the  way  from 
the  parsonage,  the  first  day  we  came  out  here,  and  that 
good  Miss  Sparrowhawk's  hot  breakfast-rolls.'' 

"  Yes,  yes — I  love  them  all  for  it.  I  never  saw  any 
one,  though,  whom  little  charities  touched  as  they  do  you, 
mother  ;  and  yet  how  small  they  are  in  your  own  eyes 
when  you  happen  to  be  the  bestower,  instead  of  the  receiver. 
But  as  to  the  children  :  suppose  I  take  the  place  Miss 
Perkins  used  to  fill  for  them  at  B ,  and  be  their  gover- 
ness henceforth." 


THE   NEW    GOVEKXESS   A^sD   HER   PUPILS.  121 

"  I  should  be  gratified  to  see  you  do  it,  my  dear,  if  the 
confinement  wouldn't  weary  you," 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind.  It  ^Yill  give  zest  to  the  em- 
ployment, too,  to  think  of  being  useful,  and  of  spar- 
ing you  expense — a  matter  certainly  to  be  thought  of 
now." 

Accordingly,  school-books  were  hunted  up  ;  what  re- 
mained of  the  library,  saved  from  the  fire,  ^yas  searched 
for  proper  manuals,  and  they  were  forthcoming,  notwith- 
standing Josepha's  secret  wish  that  a  good  proportion 
might  have  been  consumed.  Eunice's  devotion  to  Cincin- 
natus  and  Fabius  had  to  yield  to  what  she  thought  not  half 
so  interesting ;  and  Josepha  confided  to  Uncle  Felix  the 
unwilling  permission,  that  "he  might  as  well  let  Homer 
know  where  all  the  hens'  nests  were  in  the  barn,  as  she 
expected  she  would  have  no  more  time  for  hunting  eggs." 

"  Don't  you  wish,  Eunice,"  she  said  one  day  to  her 
sister,  as  they  sat  together  in  the  little  dressing-closet 
attached  to  Mrs.  Irvine's  chamber,  which  was  now  digni- 
fied with  the  title  of  school-room — "  don't  you  wish  all 
the  books  had  been  drowned  in  the  deluge  ?" 

''  You  foolish  child  !"  exclaimed  Eunice,  Vv'ho  2freatlv 
plumed  herself  on  her  superior  knovv'ledge — "  why  there 
were  no  books  then  I" 

"  "Weren't  there  though  ?  Those  must  have  been  grand 
times  to  live  in  !" 

"  You  don't  like  two  rainy  days  to  come  together  now,— 


122  SILVEEWOOD. 

how  would  you  have  fancied  a  hundred  and  fifty,  with- 
out a  sight  of  the  ground  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I'd  have  heen  safe  in  the  ark :  and  then  all 
those  animals,  so  tame,  and  heautiful  !  I  can  play  with 
Fidele  hy  the  hour,  and  I  never  get  tired  of  seeing 
menageries,  and  that  would  have  been  like  being  in  a 
mighty  fine  one  all  the  time." 

"  Yes — you'd  have  been  sure  of  being  in  the  ark,"  said 
Eunice,  teasingly — "  you  were  always  so  good  !" 

''  Certainly  I  am  !  But,  anyhow,  now,  don't  you  envy 
Homer  and  Silvy?  They  needn't  trouble  their  heads 
about  lessons,  only  to  spell  a  little  to  Edith  every  day, 
and  hear  her  read  Bible  stories  on  Sundays." 

"  I  expect  that's  as  hard  for  them  as  geography,  and 
arithmetic,  and  grammar  are  for  you." 

"  Oh  I  nonsense,  Eunice.  Just  as  if  spelling  wasn't 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world.  They  wouldn't  be  so  happy 
if  it  was  as  hard  as  my  lessons  are." 

"  And  don't  you  think  they  envy  you  sometimes,  when 
they  are  carrying  in  Avood,  or  scouring  knives,  or  feeding 
the  chickens  ?" 

*'  That's  just  fun." 

"  They  don't  call  it  fun.  Besides,  you  wouldn't  like 
to  grow  up  without  knowing  anything  —  mother,  and 
brother  Lawrence,  and  all  of  us  would  feel  so  ashamed  of 
you." 

"  Oh !    ho  I   my   smart   young   lady  I    you   think    you 


THE   XEW   GOYEKXESS   AND   HER   PUPILS.  123 

know  such  a  powerful  sight  about  those  old  dead  Romans 
that  never  did  anything,  from  your  accounts,  hut  fight 
with  each  other,  or  their  neighbors,  all  the  time,  that  you 
can  crow  over  me." 

^'  I  expect  you  could  crow  a  great  deal  better  than  1 
could,"  said  Eunice,  laughing.  "  You've  been  taking 
lessons  in  the  poultry  yard  longer." 

"  AYell,  anyhow,  I  allow  to  know  as  much  as  you  do, 
some  day ;  only  this  poking  over  books  !  I  wish  there 
was  some  other  way  to  get  knowledge  into  a  body's  head. 
It's  so  much  pleasanter  scrambling  among  the  apple  trees 
in  the  orchard  for  mellow  apples,  or  hunting  eggs,  or  tak- 
ing Homer  and  Silvy  out  to  the  woods  yonder,  to  thrash 
the  chestnut  trees,  and  open  the  burs  for  me..  Uncle 
Felix  says  he's  thankful  people  can  get  to  Heaven  with- 
out knowing  how  to  read ;  for  if  they  couldn't,  he's  afraid 
he'd  never  be  there." 

A  day  or  two  after  this,  Edith  called  upon  her  pupils 
for  the  compositions  she  had  directed  them  to  prepare. 
Eunice  came  promptly  at  her  bidding,  and  read  the  child- 
like, straight-forward  narrative  of  Corolianus,  which  she 
had  written,  and  received  her  sister's  commendation 
accordingly.  Josepha  was  then  applied  to  for  hers.  "  I 
haven't  got  any  written,"  she  said,  with  her  finger  in  her 
mouth. 

"And  why  not?" 

"  I  couldn't  find  a  subject." 


124  SILYERWOOD. 

''  But  I  gave  you  one :  you  know  I  don't  approve  of 
your  choosing  for  yourself." 

"  I  hadn't  enough  to  say  about  that  to  make  a  compo- 
sition of.  Nothing  happened  in  the  walk  you  told  me 
to  describe,  worth  telling." 

"  What  did  happen  ?  Just  refresh  my  memory  with 
the  circumstances  of  it." 

"Well — mother  said  it  was  such  a  pretty,  sunny  after- 
noon, that  we  had  better  not  lose  it  by  staying  in  the 
house  ;  so  we  all  started  down  the  lane  behind  the  orchard. 
We  stopped  at  the  spring  near  the  foot  of  the  hill,  to  get  a 
drink,  for  I  never  forget  the  silver  cup.  Eunice  called  us 
all  to  come  and  look  at  a  great  speckled  toad  that  had 
been  helping  itself  to  a  drink,  too,  I  suppose,  and-  it  made 
us  all  laugh  to  see  how  it  blinked  its  eyes,  and  looked  up 
at  us,  just  as  much  as  to  say — '  And  what  do  you  want 
with  me  V  Mother  said  she  wondered  why  Shakspeare, 
— wasn't  that  the  name,  Eunice  ?" 

"  Yes — she  said  ^Shakspeare  called  them  '  ugly  and 
venemous.'  " 

"  Well — she  wondered  what  he  did  it  for,  because,  for 
her  part,  she  thought  them  the  most  innocent,  harmless- 
looking  things  in  the  world.  And  then  you  said  some- 
thing, Edith,  about  its  carrying  a  '  precious  jewel  in  its 
head."  I  reckon  you  meant  its  eyes,  for  they  Avere  as 
bright  as  the  diamond  in  mother's  ring.  So  when  we 
had  watched  the  toad  long  enough  to  satisfy  our  curiosity, 


THE   NEW   GOVERNESS   AND   HER   PUPILS.  125 

we  went  through  the  bars,  and  along  the  path  across  the 
clover-field.  We  stopped  again  to  knock  some  stunted 
apples  from  the  old  trees  there,  and  thought  they  tasted 
right  good.  I  think  everything  tastes  better  out  of  doors. 
I  wonder  what  can  be  the  reason.  "Well,  when  we  came 
to  '  the  Ruins,'  mother  and  you  sat  down  on  an  old  log, 
and  Eunice  and  I  hunted  moss  to  make  footstools  for  you. 
After  we  were  all  seated,  mother  said  we  would  have  the 
letter  over  again ;  for  being  there,  made  her  think  so  of 
that  day  we  had  our  pic-nic,  and  she  took  it  out  of  her 
pocket — sister's  letter,  I  mean,  and  read  it  out  loud.  It 
told  how  nicely  they  had  got  on  the  day  they  went  away  ; 
how  little  tired  brother  Lawrie  was  with  the  long  ride, 
and  how  kind  Cousin  Barry  had  been,  and  how  he  said 
he  would  go  all  the  way  to  Charleston  with  them, 
and  see  them  safe  on  the  ship.  After  that,  we  talked 
awhile  about  them,  and  then  you  took  out  a  book  that 
had  some  mighty  pretty  stories  in  it  about  fish  and  fish- 
ing. I  wouldn't  care  if  all  the  books  you  carry  along 
when  we  walk,  were  like  that.  I  forget  what  you  called 
it." 

"  Izaak  Walton,"  suggested  Eunice. 

*'  Mother  read  some  in  it  to  us,"  proceeded  Josepha,  quite 
spiritedly.  ''  I  remember  he  told  how  to  cook  perch;  and 
such  a  funny  way  as  it  was  !  He  said  it  must  be  dressed 
with  some  particular  kind  of  wine,  and  then  it  was  so 
nice, — it  was  fit  only  for  a  good  Christian.     You  read  a 


126  SILVERWOOD. 

pretty  song  out  of  the  book,  too — '  Come  live  with  me, 
and  be  my  love,' — that  was  one  of  the  lines  in  it.  Then 
we  all  went  down  the  hill  to  that  deep  place,  where  the 
rocks  have  given  way  so  much  under  ground,  that  the 
tops  of  some  of  the  trees  that  are  growing  down  there, 
though  they  are  right  tall,  are  almost  even  with  our 
heads.  We  thought  there  must  be  water  at  the  bottom ; 
and  though  mother  told  us  we  were  venturesome  little 
bodies,  Eunice  and  I  went  down.  The  sides  were  very 
steep.  We  had  to  hold  on  by  the  bushes,  to  keep  ourselves 
from  slipping ;  but  there  was  no  water  there,  only  we 
could  hear  a  strange  noise  away  under  the  rocks,  like  the 
noise  Willoughby  Creek  used  to  make,  not  far  from  our 
other  home,  running  over  the  stones.  Eunice  began  to 
talk  about  snakes,  and  I  got  frightened,  and  we  both 
scrambled  up  faster  than  we  went  down.  By  this  time 
it  was  near  sun-set,  so  we  turned  about  and  went  home." 

a  Why  did  you  tell  me  you  could  not  wi'ite  a  composition 
about  our  walk  ?"  asked  Edith.  "  You  have  talked  one  to 
me." 

^'  That  wasn't  worth  writing,"  exclaimed  Josepha, 
with  a  look  of  some  contempt.  "  I  did  write  seven  lines 
on  '  Love  of  Country^''  but  I  couldn't  get  on  any  further  ; 
then  I  tried  '  Education^''  but  that  wasn't  much  better — T 
could  only  make  eleven  lines  and  a  half  about  that." 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  Edith,  smiling  ;  "  I'll  just  re- 
peat to  you  the  advice  which  a  great  writer,  who  wrote 


THE   NEW   GOVERNESS   AND   HER   PUPILS.  127 

many  books,  and  wrote  them  better  than  most  people, 
gives  on  this  subject.  He  says  nothing  is  so  easy  as  to 
say  what  we  see,  if  we  will  only  not  be  thinking  all  the 
while  hoiu  we  say  it,  but  whether  we  are  making  our- 
selves entirely  and  exactly  understood.  The  next  time 
you  have  a  composition  to  write,  just  try  and  fancy  your- 
self talking  to  me,  and  write  as  you  have  talked  in  giving 
me  your  description  of  this  walk.  You  have  mother's 
promise,  I  believe,  to  go  this  afternoon  in  the  little  wagon 
with  Uncle  Felix,  when  he  goes  to  the  mill  for  meal. 
Now,  let  me  see  if  you  can't  make  your  pen  talk  an  ac- 
count of  Eunice's  and  your  trip — both  what  was,  and  what 
was  7iot  worth  the  tellinsr." 


I 


Xll 


§n  tlje  Ming. 


''  Here  we  are  at  length,"  ran  a  letter  received  from 
Zilpha  ahout  a  fortnight  after  this,  and  Mrs.  Irvine  pro- 
ceeded, with  a  breathless  hurriedness,  that  made  it  neces- 
sary for  her  to  pause  every  little  moment,  as  she  tried  to 
read  aloud  to  her  no  less  eager  listeners ;  "  here,  in  this 
quaint,  charming,  foreign-looking  city,  and  I  lose  no  time, 
my  dearest  mother — my  beloved  Edith,  and  Eunice,  and 
Sepha,  for  you  are  around  me  as  I  write— in  relieving  your 
anxieties  about  your  Avanderers.  Lawrence — yes,  your 
very  first  question  is  about  him.  AYell,  here  he  sits 
beside  me,  looking  over  the  '  Mercury,'  and  seeming 
brighter,  fresher,  more  elastic,  than  I  have  seen  him  for 
months." 

'  Mrs.  Irvine  could  not  clearly  make  out  the  next  line, 
and  her  voice  was  husky  as  she  tried  to  read  on.  ''  Oh,  I 
am  so  thankful  !"  exclaimed  Edith,  pressing  her  hands 
together,   and  drawing  a  full  inspiration,  as   if  a  heavy 

6 


130  SILVEEWOOD. 

burden  were  lifted  from  her  "breast.  Mrs.  Irvine  fairly  put 
down  the  letter  for  a  moment. 

There  is  a  point  where  joy  and  "sorrow  seem  to  touch, 
like  the  meeting  of  the  glad,  transparent  sky,  and  the 
dark,  sullen  ocean  ;  and  in  the  poverty  of  human  ut- 
terance, they  have  then  but  one  common  expression — 
that  of  tears.  The  same,  and  yet  how  different !  In 
the  one  case,  a  bitter,  briny  flood  poured  from  the  tempest- 
tossed  sea  that  rolls  over  the  sufTering  soul ;  in  the  other, 
sparkling,  purified  exhalations,  which,  beneath  the  out- 
bursting  sunshine  of  hope,  span  the  heart  with  a  bow 
of  brightness  and  beauty  ! 

But  the  cloud  passed  from  Mrs.  Irvine's  eyes,  leaving  a 
lustre  behind,  like  "  the  clear  shining  after  rain."  She 
went  on  witlx  the  letter  : 

",As  you  read,  you  will  join  your  thanksgiving  with 
those  that  flow  out  while  .1  write,  to  the  kind,  loving 
Father  above,  who  has  folded  His  hand  no  less  tenderly 
about  us  migratory  birds  on  the  wing,  than  over  you  in 
the  quiet  nest  of  home.     We  went    round    by  sea  from 

W ,  and  although    we    had   rather    rough   weather, 

and  were  befogged  a  day,  we  experienced  less  incon- 
venience than  you  would  have  supposed.  I  see  now  the 
wisdom  of  Cousin  Bryant  coming  with  us  thus  far.  He 
has  spoiled  us  somewhat,  I'm  afraid,  for  the  rest  of  our 
journey,  by  anticipating  every  want  so  completely,  that 
we  have  been  spared  the  exertion   of  a  thought.     When 


ON   THE   WING.  131 

he  touched  me  this  morning,  as  I  lay  on  a  sofa  in 
the  saloon  of  the  steamer,  where  I  had  passed  the  night, 
I  looked  round  in  the  grey  light  for  Lawrence,  who  was 
nowhere  visible.  '  I  wanted  your  nap  to  be  as  long  as 
possible,  and  so  wouldn't  waken  you  sooner  ;  but  tie  on 
your  bonnet,  and  gather  up  your  wrappings.  Lawrence 
is  stowed  away  with  the  baggage,  in  a  carriage  on  the 
wharf ;'  and  before  I  was  fairly  awake,  I  found  myself 
at  his  side,  whirling  away  through  the  streets  of  Charles- 
ton to  the Hotel,  where  we  are  now  most  comfortably 

lodged.     Lawrence  has  just  dropped   his  '  Mercury,'  and, 
with  an   air  of  wonderful  satisfaction,   is  counting  over, 
on  his  fingers,  the  items  of  his  breakfast.     For  Josepha's 
information,  I  must  not  forget  to  say,  that  he  refused  to 
touch  a  morsel  of  what  he  fancied  could  not  possibly  be 
very  dainty,  cooked  in  a  cabin  kitchen  about  as  extensive 
as  Aunt   Rose's   hearth  ;  so    he   contented  himself   with 
crackers  soaked  in  some   of  Mrs.    Grant's  wine.     By  the 
way,  remind  that  good  lady  of  the  comfort  it  was  to  him. 
But  there  he  sits,  counting  his  fingers.      Thumb — coffee, — 
genuine  Mocha,  he  avers — none  of  your  figure  of  speech, 
or  poetical  license  for  the  beverage  in  general.    Fore-finger 
— Indian    'egg-bread,'  most  golden-hued  and  delightful, 
with  butter  as  s,olid  (by  no  means   a    Southern  charac- 
teristic, he  thinks)  as  if  it   had  been  churned  three  days 
before,   and  were  the   product  of    Orange  county  cows. 
Second  finger — the   half  of  a  small,  fresh  fish,  of  rare 


132  SILVERWOOD. 

delicacy  of  flavor.  Third  finder — the  whole  of  as  light  a 
Grraham  roll  as  ever  the  vesreteriaii  himself  sat  down  to. 
Pretty  fair,  isn't  it  ?  for  an  invalid,  who  has  heretofore  been 
subsisting  on  what  would  no  more  than  satisfy  the  ap- 
}3etite  of  a  canary  bird. 

"  Bryant  has  gone  out  to  see  an  acquaintance  or  two  he 
has  here,  and  Lawrence  and  I  have  sent  our  cards  to  our 
Newport  friends,  the  De  Lisles.  There's  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  a  servant  hands  me  their  names,  and  tells  me  they 
are  in  the  drawing-room  below.  So  good-bye  for  the 
present. 

*'  Our  friends  are  gone,  and  I  take  up  the  broken  thread 
of  my  chat  again.  Mrs.  De  Lisle  looks  even  younger 
than  when  we  n:iet  her  at  Newport,  two  summers  ago, 
and  is  as  overflowing  with  genial  kindliness  as  ever.  She 
will  listen  to  no  denial  or  objections,  on  our  part,  to 
making  her  house  our  head-quarters  while  we  are  here ; 
so  her  carriage  is  to  come  for  us  before  dinner.  Her  son 
is  as  full  of  frolic,  and  as  fond  of  pranks,  as  you  remem- 
ber, Edith,  he  used  to  be  on  the  sea-beach,  and  persists 
still  in  taking  life  as  a  sort  of  joke.  The  air  is  delight- 
fully soft  and  bland  here,  and  the  trellis  of  the  verandah, 
opposite  the  window  at  which  I  am  writing,  is  gay  with 
climbing  roses.  Your  favorite  '  cloth  of  gold'  is  there, 
mother,  if  my  sense  of  smell  don't  deceive  me,  for  the 
breeze  wafts  its  odor  this  way,  and  I  am  surrounded  by 
quite  an  atmosphere  of  sweets.     I  wish  yon  witch  of  a 


ON   THE   WInG.  133 

little  darling,  who  is  darting  like  a  humming-bird  in  and 
out  of  the  verandah,  with  her  amber-colored  curls  floating 
over  her  bare,  white  shoulders,  would  fling  me  a  bud 
across  the  street  to  scent  my  letter  with  I 

''  But  I  must  leave  you  for  a  while,  and  have  my  effects 
in  readiness  for  the  carriage.  Besides,  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten that  Lawrence  has  torn  his  cloak  on  some  officious 
trunk  hasp,  so  there's  a  little  employment  for  my  needle. 

"  I  am  writing  in  Mrs.  De  Lisle's  morning  room,  look- 
ing, not  into  the  street,  but  upon  a  vine-shaded  piazza, 
and  off"  into  a  garden  that  even  yet  is  bright  with  summer 
beauty.  The  residences  here  do  not  face  the  thorough- 
fares, as  in  other  cities,  but  turn  their  gables  to  them,  and 
surrounded  as  they  are  with  shrubbery,  they  have  a 
charming  air  of  rural  privacy.  But  I'm  not  going  to 
fill  my  remaining  half  page  with  statistics  about  the 
'  Citadel,'  and  the  '  guard-houses,'  and  the  seaward  look- 
ing Battery,  and  such  things  ;  nor  can  I  take  the  time 
noAv  to  tell  you  of  all  our  kind  hostess  interests  herself  in 
having  us  see — of  our  yesterday's  visit  to  a  rice-mill,  or  our 
drive  this  morning  to  the  Magnolia  Cemetery,  a  sweet, 
quiet  '  city  of  the  dead.'  These,  with  many  other  mat- 
ters, must  be  laid  over  as  topics  for  tea-table  talk,  wdien 
we  are  all  together  once  more.  How  oar  thoughts  dwell 
with,  and  linger  over  our  beloved  quartette  !  Indeed,  I 
feel  as  if  we  had  brought  ourselves  but  half  away,  since 
our  hearts  will  so  stay  behind  us  I     Sometimes  Law^rence 


1"34  SILVEEWOOD. 

startles  me  by  stopping  in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  silent 
reveries,  and  saying,  as  if  he  had  been  watching  you  all 
with  a  sort  of  seer's  ken  :  ^  mother  dear  is  sitting  at  the 
window  with  her  sewing  now,  thinking  of  us ;'  or,  '  they 
have  gone  out  to  walk  now,  and  mother  dear  is  reading 
to  them  in  the  shadow  of  '  the  Ruins.'  He  has  just  come 
in  from  a  ride  with  Mr.  De  Lisle,  looking  quite  revived 
and  gay  ;  and  as  he  leans  over  me,  he  bids  me  ask  Eu- 
nice if  she  has  discarded  Tytler,  and  aspired  to  Niebuhr 
yet,  and  wants  Josepha  to  send  him  word  as  to  the  pro- 
gress of  her  investigations  in  entomology.  In  two  days 
we  sail  for  Havana,  and  then  Cousin  Bryant  turns  his 
face  toward  the  shores  of  the  Rappahannock,  and  we  put  a 
belt  of  ocean  between  you  and  our  untravelled  hearts, 
that  '  drag  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain.'  " 


XIII. 

^rantleu-Ufflm. 

^'  We  have  been  so  cheered,"  said  Edith,  the  next 
morning,  as  she  left  the  breakfast-table,  where  her  mother 
still  sat,  portioning  out  sugar  into  the  servant's  coffee- 
cups,  which  Silvy  held  on  a  tray  beside  her, — "  so 
brightened  up  by  Zilpha's  letter,  that  we  will  accept 
Mrs.  G-rantley's  invitation  to  dinner  to-day,  with  every 
disposition  to  enjoy  ourselves.  At  what  hour  does  her  note 
say  ?" 

"  Five,  I  believe." 

''  Rather  late  for  a  November  country  dinner  ;  but  I 
suppose  ten  o'clock  breakfasts  and  five  o'clock  dinners  are 
the  remnants  of  the  many  English  customs  that  have 
been  perpetuated  here  ever  since  the  cavalier  days  of  the 
Old  Dominion,  and  Mrs.  G-rantley  sets  too  much  store  by 
her  kinship  with  the  old  Sir  William,  to  give  in  to  a  more 
plebeian  hour.  By  the  by,  mother,  I  don't  believe  you 
have  a  dress   cap   suitable  to  encounter  the  elite  of  Mil- 


136  SILVEltWOOD. 

burne  in.  J  wish  you  had  been  more  mindful  of  your  oayr 
wants,  and  supplied  yourself  before  we  had  left  the  region 
of  millinery  shops." 

''  But,  my  dear,  there  was  so  much  to  get,  and  j'ou 
know  we  can't  do  as  we  used  to — get  what  we  ivcnit. 
Let  us  be  content,  however,  that  we  still  can  have  what 
we  needy 

Edith  gave  a  sigh.  The  altered  state  of  the  family 
finances  was  a  sore  subject  to  her  ;  and  she  had  not 
yet  learned  to  accommodate  herself  to  it  with  her 
mother's  cheerful  grace.  But  she  recovered  her  equa- 
nimity in  a  moment  ;  for  she  caught  the  expression  of 
the  meek  eye  opposite  her,  and  she  could  not  find  it  in 
her  heart  to  disturb  its  quiet  by  any  spoken  regrets. 

"  I  have  it!"  she  said,  with  sudden  gaiety.  "Mother, 
I'll  make  you  a  cap." 

"  But  would  it  do  any  better  than  those  I  have  ?  Re- 
member, you  have  served  no  apprenticeship  to  the  trade  ; 
besides,  I  don't  know  that  I  have  the  materials  at 
hand." 

''Yes;  there's  tnlle  about  the  house  somewhere;  and 
you  remember  the  dress  I  got  when  1  was  bridesmaid 
for  Anne  Harrison,  and  what  a  quantity  of  Yalenciennes 
lace  she  sent  me  to  trim  it  with.  That  will  just  be  the 
thing."  And  Edith  forthvrith  set  to  work  with  great 
zeal.  *- 

Josepha  was  no  way  reluctant  to  see  the  cap  under- 


I 


GRAXTLEY-HOLM.  137 

taken,  for  she  tliought  that  it  of  course  implied  the 
omission  of  lessons  for  that  day ;  in  which,  to  her  cha- 
grin, she  proved  to  be  mistaken.  The  bit  of  millinery- 
work  was  completed  in  time,  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
parties — at  least  the  children  declared  their  mother's 
cheeks  looked  like  roses  in  the  snow,  through  the  pretty 
cloud  of  lace  ;  and  Edith  protested  that  she  had  never 
realized  before  that  poverty  had  luxuries  which  riches 
could  not  buy. 

"  If  you  had  bought  the  cap  in  a  city  shop,  mother," 
she  said,  as  she  was  fitting  it  on,  "  it  would  have  been  a 
matter-of-course  that  it  should  be  pretty,  and  all  that, 
and  neither  of  us  would  have  given  it  a  second  thought ; 
but  now  we'll  both  enjoy  it,  if  for  no  more  than  that  it 
cost  nothing  but  my  pleasant  task  of  putting  it  together." 

"  Ah  I"  said  Mrs,  Irvine,  with  a  gratified  tone,  as  she 
kissed  Edith's  full,  fair  cheek,  "  if  we  would  only  believe 
how  cheap  the  materials  are  out  of  which  happiness  is 
made  !  It  is  just  as  well  to  bring  our  mind  to  our  cir 
cumstances,  as  our  circumstances  to  our  mind  ; — better 
indeed  ;  for  that  we  can  always  do,  if  we  will ;  while  the 
other  may  be  out  of  our  power." 

The  mansion  at  Crrantley-hoim,  Vv^ith  a  wide  lawn 
sloping  tovv'ards  the  river,  and  a  noble  background  of 
mountains,  was  one  of  the  olden  time,  built  of  stone,  and 
of  more  cumbrous  aspect  and  proportions  than  is  usual  in 
this  later  day  of  Italian  villas  and  Swiss  cottages.     The 


138  SILVERWOOD. 

oaken  floor*  of  the  broad  hall  was  waxed  till  it  glistened 
like  a  mirror;  and,  but  for  the  strip  of  carpet  laid  along 
its  centre,  it  would  have  required  something  of  a  rope- 
dancer's  expertness  to  have  glided  over  its  glassy  surface 
without  losing  footing.  The  guests  had  in  part  arrived, 
when  Mrs.  Irvine  and  Edith  entered  the  drawing-room. 
Mrs.  G-rantley  received  them  most  graciously  ;  Miss  Bur- 
ton most  calmly  and  quietly  ;  wdiile  the  former  was  pro- 
fuse in  her  regrets  that  she  had  happened  to  be  driving 
out  when  the  young  gentlemen  from  Silverwood  had 
called  to  make  their  adieux. 

Their  hostess  had  evidently  not  been  abroad  in  vain,  for 
Edith  was  not  long  in  discovering  an  exquisite  Psyche, 
upon  a  pedestal  of  yellow  marble,  at  one  end  of  the 
room  ;  and  there  were  various  pictures  of  real  excellence 
on  the  walls,  which,  however,  with  a  singular  disregard 
to  effect,  w^ere  only  whitewashed.  She  could  not  help 
fancying  to  herself  the  paroxysm  of  offended  taste  into 
which  the  authors  of  these  works  of  art  w^ould  be 
throwai,  could  they  see  what  sort  of  a  background  they 
were  disposed  against,  when  even  her  own  eye  felt 
the  violence  of  the  contrast  between  the  dead,  shadow- 
less white,  and  the  rich,  glowing  carpet  and  dark  fur- 
niture, not  to  speak  of  the  statuette  or  the  pictures. 
Mrs.  G-rant  had  made  room  for  Mrs.  Irvine  on  the 
sofa  beside  her,  as  soon  as  she  had  sotten  throup-h 
with   her   salutations.     Miss   Burton    had   taken   posses- 


GRAXTLEY-HOLM.  139 

sion  of   Edith,    and  they  were    standing   before   one  of 
the  paintings,  when  Miss  Lettuce  Grant  joined  them. 

"  Not  paying  your  de^wirs  to  art,  I  hope,  Miss  Edith  ? 
If  that's  your  queue,  you'll  be  sadly  out  of  your  ele- 
ment here,  where  our  only  '  galleries'  are  the  aisles 
of  our  forests.  For  your  own  peace  of  mind,  I'd  recom- 
mend you  to  devote  yourself  to  the  '  Studies  of  Nature,' 
with  St.  Pierre." 

"  I  shall  be  able  to  do  both,"  said  Edith,  point- 
ing up  to  the  picture  overhead,  and  then  to  the  win- 
dow, from  whence  a  fine  view  of  water,  v/ood,.  and 
mountain  stretched  indefinitely  away,  beneath  the  linger- 
ing evening    light. 

"  Your  models  in  the  art  line  will  be  few,  I  assur6  you. 
Miss  Edith.  Mrs.  G-rantley  is  the  only  patroness  it  has 
here  ;  and  she  and  you  are  birds  of  passage,  Susan — off 
to  your  down-country  home  with  the  first  snow-flake." 

"  My  sister's  possessions  are  limited  enough  in  that 
direction,"  said  Miss  Burton ;  so  I  don't  think,  Miss 
Irvine,  you  lose  much  by  the  shutting  up  of  our  house. 
Psyche  is  a  study,  it  is  true ;  but  you  have  as  good  a  one 
on  your  oyv^i  mantel,  I  observed." 

"  She  loses  all  ]^Iiiburne  has  to  show^  of  works  of  art, 
however,"  rejoined  Miss  Lettuce  ;  "  though  I  beg  pardon  of 
the  countless  Y/ashingtons,  and  Jeftersons,  and  Madisons, 
and  Marshalls  that  adorn  our  walls.  But,  seriously,"  con- 
tinued the  gay  girl,  smoothing  her  laughing  features  into 


140  SILVEEWOOD. 

affected  gravity,  ''I  do  pity  you,  transplanted  into  tlie 
depth   of  the   country  just   on  the  edge  of  winter." 

*'  That's  the  best  season  for  transplanting  young  trees," 
interposed   Miss  Burton,  smiling. 

"  Yes — it  may  do  for  tough,  hardy,  human  evergreens, 
(like  our  friend,  Miss  Eliza  Sparrowhawk,  yonder),  who 
have  no  delicate  fibres  to  be  hurt ;  but,  as  for  you,  Miss 
Edith,  I  fear  you'll  need  all  the  influences  of  the  spring 
to  make  you  take  root." 

"  I'm  no  green-house  plant.  Miss  Lettuce,"  said  Edith  : 
"  and  as  this  is  the  native  soil  of  the  stock  from  which  1 
spring,  the  scion  ought  not  to  have  its  nature  changed  by 
having  been  planted  a  degree  or  two  farther  north." 

^'  Well,  I  sincerely  hope  so,"  replied  Miss  Lettuce,  "  foi' 
really  I,  who  am  country-born,  feel  it  something  of  a 
privation  to  live  among  leafless  trees,  when  I  remember 
how  captivating  cities  begin  to  be  at  this  season,  with 
the  ladies  looking  like  fresh-blown  dahlias,  in  their  bright 
winter  gear." 

"  Yet  their  colors  fail  to  rival  IN'ature's,"  said  Edith, 
]iointing  to  some  trees  on  the  lawn,  which  were  fluttering 
their  yellow  and  red  foliage  still,  though  it  was  mid  No- 
vember. 

"  But  think  what  they'll  be  a  month  hence.  Nature's 
well  enough  in  its  way,  but  one  gets  a  little  too  much  of 
it  then." 

^'  Too  much  oi  Nature,  do  I  hear  you  say.  Miss  Lettuce  ? 


GRANTLEY-HOLM.  141 

''  Ah  !  is  that  you,  Mr.  Phillips  ?"  she  said,  turning 
round  to  the  speaker.  ''  Let  me  present  you  to  my  friend, 
Miss  Edith  Irvine.  Yes  ;  that  was  what  I  said.  I  am  a 
gregarious  creature,  and  prefer  herding  with  my  kind,  ra- 
ther than  finding  companionship  with  mute  rocks  and  trees." 

"  Then  you're  not  able  to  discover  'tongues  in  trees? '  " 

"  Tongues  in  mouths  I  like  better.  For  my  part,  I 
think  a  great  deal  of  what  poets  write  about  Nature,  is 
mere  stuff.  They  talk  of  its  sympathies,  and  of  its  great 
heart  beating  in  unison  with  humanity's,  as  if  the  laugh- 
able idea  of  Kepler  I  met  with  the  other  day,  were  a  real 
fact." 

"  Enlighten  us,  pray,  with  the  result  of  your  investiga- 
tions in  that  direction,"  said  Mr.  Philips,  assuming  an  at- 
titude of  mock  attention.  "  I'm  in  darkness  as  to  ever}^- 
thing  about  him,  beyond  what  my  college  astronomy  tells 
me  of  his  '  laws.'  " 

"  Of  course  you  ask  for  inform.ation,  seeing  the  source 
from  which  you  seek  it." 

"  Of  course.  I  sit  at  your  feet  with  all  the  reverence  the 
students  of  three  centuries  asfo  did  before  the  dausfhter  of 
the  Italian  astronomer — forget  his  name — who  used  to  take 
her  father's  place  in  the  lecturer's  chair  when  he  was  sick." 

"  AYell,  his  fancy  seemed  to  be  that  Nature  was  a  huge, 
living  creature,  whose  lungs  were  the  oceans  ;  its  veins, 
rivers  ;  its  hair,  the  forests  ;  and  who  spat  fire  occasionally, 
out  at  Etna  or  Vesuvius,  when  in  a  sulky  mood." 


142  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Rather  a  formidable  creature,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Phil- 
lips, shrugging  his  shoulders,  "  and  one  it  would  be  well 
to  keep  on  good  terms  with.  But  what's  your  quarrel 
with  Nature.". 

"I  deny  that  its  sympathies  are  what  poets  make  them 
out  to  be.  For  instance :  I  sally  out  in  a  sombre,  grey 
mood,  and  Nature,  forsooth,  instead  of  lending  the  least 
countenance  to  my  pensive  fit,  laughs  out  in  my  very  face 
— has  nothinor  l^^t  brisrht  skies  and  sunshine.  Then 
again,  I'm  as  merry  as  a  robin,  and  I  go  abroad  into  the 
woods  and  meadows  for  congenial  influences,  and  behold  I 
your  tender,  sympathizing  Nature  scowls  and  mutters 
like  a  very  virago.  There — I  see  you  have  your  hand 
on  a  volume  of  Wordsworth.  Compare  my  experience 
with  his  laudations." 

Mr.  Phillips  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  book,  and 
read  a  few  detached  lines — 

" 1  have  learned 


To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  ollcntimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 

1  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts, — ?,  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air. 


GKANTLET-HOLM.  l43 

Therefore,  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows,  and  the  woods, 

And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  the  green  earth, — well  pleased  to  recognise 

In  Nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 

Of  all  my  moral  being." 

Other  and  similar  passages  he  read  as  he  turned  over  the 
pages,  until,  under  the  influence  they  evoked,  the  spirit 
of  badinage  ".vas  laid  aside. 

''These  are  unfortunate  quotations  for  your  position,  Miss 
Lettuce.     What  do  you  think,  Miss  Irvine  ?" 

"  While  I  can't  agree  with  Miss  Lettuce,"  said  Edith, 
^'  I'm  disposed  to  believe  that  poets  do  carry  their  deifica- 
tion of  the  abstract  thing  they  call  '  Nature,'  to  an  extreme; 
for  what  is  Nature  but  the  living  principle  that  breathes 
through  all  creation  ?  In  other  words,  G-od,"  she  added, 
gravely.  "  If  they  would  agree  to  this  interpretation,  I 
could  join  their  worship  with  my  whole  heart." 

*'  Yes,  many  of  our  modern  poets  stand  in  great  dread 
of  writing  a  line  that  might  squint  towards  pietism. 
Some  of  them,  indeed,  are  just  about  as  pagan  in  their 
creed  as  the  old  G-reeks  ;  for  we  have  the  spirit  of  beauty, 
and  the  very  things  they  idealised  in  their  myths,  imper- 
sonated now  under  different  names." 

"  Bless  me !  Mr.  Phillips !"  exclaimed  Miss  Lettuce. 
*'  Are  you  going  to  give  Miss  Edith  a  dish  of  your  ^sthe- 


144  SILVERWOOD. 

tics, — that's  the  approved  word  now  I  believe, — already  ? 
Pray,  wait  till  the  dessert  is  served  ;  it  will  come  in  more 
appropriately  then,  for  she  couldn't  brook  the  vulgarity  of 
every  day  meat  and  drink  after — after — " 

"  An  '  oenomel  from  Ida,"  suggested  Mr.  Phillips^ 
teasingly.  ''  I  know  that's  the  word  you  were  trying  to 
think  of." 

"  Miss  Edith,  don't  you  agree  with  me,  that  pedantry  is 
a  very  henious  thing  ?" 

"  I  beg  you  wont  be  so  personal,  Miss  Lettuce,"  said  Mr. 
Phillips,  deprecatingly.  "  Yoa  might  tread  upon  the  slipper 
of  the  young  lady  who  was  quoting  Kepler  a  moment  ago.' 

"  Do,  Mr.  Bunbury,  come  to  our  rescue,"  called  Miss 
Lettuce,  to  a  tame-looking  young  man  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  room.  "  Mr.  Phillips  is  about  to  injure  our  appetites 
for  dinner,  with  Greek  confections." 

''  Ah  !"  said  the  gentleman  in  question,  joining  their 
circle,  and  gazing  round  inquisitively,  as  if  in  search  of 
the  confections,  with  his  eyes.  "  If  they're  as  tempting 
as  Stuart's,  I  shouldn't  wonder  you  didn't  know  when  to 
stop  eating.  Greek  ones,  did  you  say  ?  How  did  he  come 
by  them  ?  Didn't  know  they  were  famous  for  anything 
over  there  but  old  marble." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Miss  Lettuce,  giving  Edith  a  sly  look ; 
*'  but  their  next  door  neighbors,  the  Turks,  are  great  on 
sweet-meats,  I  believe.  You  can  buy  as  many  for  a  few 
coppers,  as  you  can  carry  away  with  you." 


¥ 


GRANTLEY-HOLM.  145 

'•  Quite  an  inducement  for  you  to  visit  Constantinople, 
I<Iiss  licttuce,  if  you're  so  fond  of  them." 

"  I  encourage  home-manufactures,  sir.  I  patronise 
maple-sugar.  But  Mrs.  G-rantley  is  beckoning  us  to  her. 
Miss  Edith,  she  is  showing  \our  mamma  a  port-folio  of 
engravings,  some  of  the  European  spoils.  Mr.  Phillips, 
when  you  and  Mr.  Bunbury  have  done  comparing  tastes 
on  the  subject  of  confections,  you  can  join  us  ;"  and  the 
mischievous  girl,  followed  by  Edith,  moved  to  the  other 
side  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  Some  prints  I  brought  from  Italy  with  me,"  said  Mrs. 
G-rantley.  "I  thought  they  might  interest  you.  Miss  Edith, 
as  they  are  mostly  engravings  of  the  works  of  the  old 
masters.  Here  is  a  copy  of  Raffaelle's  'Madonna  della  Seg- 
giola,'  and  here  you  see  are  some  of  Correggio's  angels  ;" 
and  the  rubicund  hostess  discoursed  about  "purity  of  ex- 
pression," and  "truth of  tone,"  and  ^^chiaroscuro,^^  and  "ten- 
der light,"  vfith  a  solubility  that  could  hardly  have  been  ex- 
ceeded if  her  life  had  been  spent  in  a  studio.  Miss  Burton 
simply  called  Edith's  attention  to  the  look  of  maternal 
love  upon  the  Virgin's  face,  and  the  combined  human  and 
divine  beauty  of  the  child's,  as  if  she  would  fain  let  down 
her  sister  from  her  hobby  ;  but  Mrs.  G-rantley  was  fairly 
mounted,  and  picture  after  picture  was  examined,  always 
accompanied,  really  very  much  to  Mrs.  Irvine's  and 
Edith's  satisfaction,  by  her  reminiscences  of  the  original. 

"  I  lived,  moved,  and  had  my  being  in  the  Pitti  Palace, 


146  SILVERWOOT). 

while  in  Florence,"  continued  Mrs.  Grrantley,  taking  a 
fresh  mouthful  of  air,  and  starting  anew  ;  "  and  it  was 
the  same   way  in  the  gallery  of  the  Vatican  at  Rome — " 

"  That  was  the  reason  you  looked  so  thin  when  you 
came  home,"  interrupted  Miss  Lettuce.  '•  I  recall  now, 
howpale  you  were.  Pity,  indeed  !  Such  unsubstantial  food 
was  enough  to  starve  you.  '  Tender-loin'  is  better  than  'ten- 
der light,'  after  all." 

"  I  scarcely  did  take  time  to  eat,"  said  Mrs.  Grantley, 
with  a  smile  at  the  interruption.  ''  Studying  these  noble 
artists,  too,  I  find  has  given  me  a  great  distaste  for  the 
modern  schools,  so  mechanical  as  some  of  them  are." 

"  Vice  versa,"  said  Miss  Lettuce,  turning  to  Mr.  Phil- 
lips and  Mr.  Bunbury,  "  as  my  devotion  to  maple  sugar 
destroys  all  power  of  appreciating  Grreek  confections — " 

"  In  spite  of  Miss  Lettuce,"  interposed  Mr.  Phillips  to 
Edith,  "  you  are  having  the  dessert  before  the  substan- 
tials.  Suppose  we  step  across  the  hall  to  the  library,  and, 
Chinese  fashion,  follow  up  the  dessert  of  art  with  the 
strong  meat  of  Reid  or  Stewart ;  or,  if  less  intellectually 
disposed,  we  can  whet  our  teeth  on  some  of  Sir  Charles 
Lyell's  fossil  bones.  But  I  see  dinner  is  announced;"  and 
presenting  his  arm  to  Edith,  they  followed  to  the  dining- 
room. 

"  Miss  Edith  I"  exclaimed  Lettuce  G-rant,  from  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  table,  ''did  you  hear  the  champagne-pop 
of  my  neighbor's  wit?     Don't  attempt  to   prevent    me, 


GRANTLEY-HOLM.  147 

Mr.  Bunbuiy.  I  must  tell  it.  I  was  squeezing  my  lemon 
into  my  soup,  and  told  him  he  \yould  find  a  soupgon  of  the 
juice  a  great  improvement.  He  says  he  thinks  this  sotqj 
song  needs  improvement, — that  he's  tired  of  it,  and  if  he 
had  the  laying  down  of  the  law  about  dinners,  he  would 
put  another  tune  into  people's  heads,  than  this  everlasting 
beginning  with  so  trashy  a  dish." 

"■  I  agree  with  Mr.  Bunbury,"  said  Miss  Sparrowhawk, 
who,  as  well  as  that  gentleman,  had  failed  to  comprehend 
Miss  Lettuce's  joke.  "  I  don't  see  why  we  Americans 
must  eat  just  what  the  French  do.  Why,  the  last  time  I 
was  in  one  of  those  grand  New  York  hotels,  I  found  those 
French  pates  were  called  for  constantly." 

''  Expensive  livers  those  are,"  said  Miss  Lettuce,  with 
an  innocent  look — "  the  s^ourmands  I  mean." 

"No;  she  means  the  geese'' s^  Miss  Sparrowhawk," 
laughed  Mr.  Phillips.  "  You  see  she's  making  game  of 
you." 

"All!  sir;  you  fired  that  shot  with  Sidney  Smith's 
fowling  piece,"  cried  Miss  Lettuce,  "  and  it  fell  short  of 
its  aim,  too ;  for  I  hope  it  didn't  even  ruffle  a  feather, 
Miss  Eliza." 

Miss  Sparrowhawk  looked  puzzled ;  and  Edith,  taking 
compassion  on  her  as  the  momentary  prey  of  these  light 
shooters,  began  a  grave  discussion  with  her  on  the  myste- 
ries of  the  culinary  art  in  general,  in  which  the  good 
maiden  lady  was  reported  to  have  a  sort  of  Soyer's  skill.- 


148  SILVERWOOD. 

The  dinner  was  at  length  over,  coffee  handed  m  the 
drawing-room,  and  some  of  the  guests,  Mrs.  Irvine  and 
Edith  among  them,  had  taken  their  departure. 

"  Somebody  told  me,"  said  Miss  Sara  G-rant,  as  the  re- 
maining ladies  drew  round  the  fire  again,  ''  that  the  Ir- 
vines  had  met  with  great  reverses,  and  were,  in  fact,  in 
pecuniary  straights.  But  did  you  see  that  cap  Mrs.  Ir- 
vine had  on,  Susan  ?  The  Valenciennes  lace  on  it  could 
not  have  cost  less  than  six  dollars  a-yard.  It  was  that 
wide  ;"  and  she  measured  the  width  on  her  hand, 

'"Everybody  has  their  way  of  being  extravagant,"  said 
Miss  Sparrowhawk.     ''  I  dare  say  you  have,  too,  Sara." 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  suggested  Mrs.  Grant,  "  I  don't  reck- 
on there  was  any  extravagance  about  it.  Mrs.  Irvine  may 
have  got  the  cap  before  their  troubles  came  upon  them." 

"  I  dcn't  believe  she  ever  had  it  on  before,"  persisted 
Miss  Sara. 

"  I  didn't  particularly  notice  the  cap,"  replied  Miss 
Burton,  to  whom  Miss  G-rant's  question  had  been  ad- 
dressed, "  for  I  was  so  much  taken  up  with  the  wearer, 
as  to  be  quite  unconscious  what  she  had  on.  It's  a  real 
luxury  to  meet  with  such  a  person — so  ready  to  be  pleased, 
and  so  desirous  of  giving  pleasure  to  others." 

"  Yes  ;  it's  worth  one's  while  to  have  something  to  show," 
said  Mrs.  G-rantley,  "  when  one  finds  people  who  are  so 
appreciative.     As  for  you.  Lettuce,  you  toss  over  my  choice 


GRANTLEY-HOLM,  149 

pictures  as  irreverently  as  if  they  were  ninepence  litlio- 
graplis." 

''But,  pray,  bear  with  me,  dear  Mrs.  Grantley.  Re- 
member I  have  never  been  to  Italy — never  breathed  the 
atmosphere  of  ataliers,  and  must,  therefore,  be  excused 
for  being  somewhat  of  a  Yandal  in  my  treatment  of  your 
Roman  treasures." 


.^= 


XIV. 


%  grolieii  '§tkxk 


^  Edith  sat  alone,  in  the  twilight,  looking  abstractedly 
into  the  parlor-fire,  and  losing  herself  in  such  ruminations 
as  the  hour  was  calculated  to  awaken.  She  was  forget- 
ting what  she  had  often  heard  her  mother  say :  that  mere 
aimless  reverie  was  a  species  of  hurtful  mental  dissipa- 
tion, that  left  the  mind  weakened  by  its  indulgence  in  it. 

"  The  want  of  occupation  is  not  rest," 

she  was  accustomed  to  repeat,  (for  it  was  her  way  to 
enforce  her  own  wise  counsels  by  some  favorite  distich  or 
apothem;)  "  and  if  you  are  mentally  wearied,  and  need 
relaxation,  throw  open  the  door  to  your  thoughts,  and  let 
them  loose,  like  children  from  school,  for  hearty,  healthful 
play.  Don't  let  them  slide  into  a  corner,  and  doze  away 
the  time  in  waking  dreams,  so  that  when  you  recall 
them,  they  come  back  to  their  duties  with  no  zest — no 
appetite  for   labor."     But   Edith  could  not  always  over- 


152  SILVERWOOD. 

come  her  tendencies  ;  and,  to-night,  her  reverie  was  long 
and  sombre-hued.  She  was,  however,  learning  one  lesson 
— to  suppress  the  outward  demonstration  of  her  emotions ; 
for,  so  great  was  her  nature's  craving  for  sympathy,  that, 
hitherto,  she  had  poured  out  all  that  she  had  felt  or 
suffered,  too  heedlessly.  Now,  the  bosom  that  had  been 
the  repository  of  every  joy  and  sorrow,  was  far  away,  and 
she  would  not  burden  her  mother  with  the  utterance  of 
thoughts  so  at  variance  with  the  Christian  serenity  which 
she  inculcated. 

But  her  solitude  was  at  length  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  candles ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  Mrs.  Irvine 
came  from  the  next  room,  with  letters  in  her  hand. 

*'  One  from  Bryant,"  she  said. 

*'  For  me  ?"  asked  Edith,  rousing  herself. 

"  It  is  directed  to  me,  but  intended  equally  for  us  all — 
full  of  detail  about  the  journey,  and  kind  as  his  own 
dear  self." 

Edith  extended  her  hand  for  it ;  and,  while  she  read 
it,  her  mother  broke  the  seal  of  the  other  letter.  It  was 
a  short  one,  and  she  read  it,  folded  it  abstractedly  up, 
opened  it  again,  and  re-read  it,  before  Edith  had  finished 
Bryant's. 

"  Who  is  that  one  from  ?"  she  asked,  as  she  took  it  from 
the  passive  hand  ;  and  the  disturbed  expression  of  her  mo- 
ther's face  alarmed  her.     She  hurriedly  glanced  over  it. 


A  BROKEN  REVEEIE.  163 

*'  Dear  Madam  : 

"  As  your  personal  friend,  and  interested  in  what  affects 
the  welfare  of  your  family,  I  feel  constrained  to  address 
you  on  a  matter  of  great  moment  to  yourself  Wlien  you 
were  in  this  city,  some  few  months  ago,  you  told  me,  if  I 
mistake  not,  that  you  had  placed  the  proceeds  of  the  sale 

of  your  place  at  B ,  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Thos.  Bryson, 

for  investment.  I  could  have  told  you  at  the  time,  that  I 
did  not  consider  him  a  perfectly  safe  man,  but  felt  a  deli- 
cacy in  doing  it,  especially  as  his  acquaintanceship  with 
your  family  dated  beyond  mine,  and  as  I  had  had  pecun- 
iary relations  with  him  of  a  character  that  might  have 
given  me  an  undue  prejudice  against  him,  in  your  eyes. 
Recently,  however,  my  suspicions  have  been  verified  ;  and 
it  has  just  transpired,  that  his  extensive,  and,  I  fear,  un- 
principled speculations,  have  ended  in  bankruptcy ;  at 
least,  he  has  '  broken '  fashionably — that  is,  his  handsome 
house,  furniture,  &c.,  with  a  matter  of  some  $30,000,  to 
boot,  are  settled  upon  his  wife ;  and  so  are  beyond  the 
touch  of  creditors. 

"  Now,  what  I  would  advise  is,  that  you  come  on,  at 
once,  and  make  personal  application  to  him  for  the  funds 
which  he  holds  from  you.  A  letter  to  him  will  probably 
avail  nothing  :  it  is  easy  to  throw  it  aside  ;  but  a  widow's 
pleadings  might  move  him.  The  creditors  say  they  will 
not  realize  fifteen  cents  on  the  dollar ;  but,  from  the 
reserved  portion,  your  demand  might  be  shamed  out  of 

7 


15  i  SILVER  WOOD, 

him.  Infirm,  and  miused  to  business,  as  I  have  long  been^ 
I  ^YOuld  have  moved  in  the  matter  at  once,  had  I  not  been 
sure  that  any  approach,  on  my  part^  would  have  made 
against  you.  Come  at  once  to  my  house.  Jacqueline  will 
be  glad  to  see  you.  Is  your  son  spending  the  winter  at 
home  ?  My  regards  to  the  young  ladies. 
"  Truly  yoursy 

^'  John  P.  DrBois," 

Edith  threw  down  the  letter^  and  sank  hopelessly  into 
a  chair.  For  some  moments  neither  spoke.  Edith  was 
the  first  to  break  silence. 

^'  I  believe  it's  true,  mother,  that  troubles  don't 
come  singly.  See  how  they're  accumulating  upon  us  I 
The  loss  of  your  money — the  fire  that  swept  away  our 
home — Lawrence  ill — he  and  Zilpha  away  from  us  ;  and 
now  this  additional  trial — when  will  it  stop  ?  I  tremble 
to  think  when  ;"  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 

"  My  child/'  said  her  mother,  tenderly,  while  her  own 
eyes  moistened,  "  you  do  indeed  make  the  picture  look 
dark  ;  but  are  there  no  mercies  mingled  with  the  trials  t 
I  have  been  trying  to  think  them  over,  and  find  them  very 

many.     Our  losses  and  trials  at  B- made  us  realize 

how  many  v/arm,  sympathizing  friends  we  had — and  then 
we  were  not  left  houseless.  "We  had  this  remnant  of  your 
father's  property  to  come  to  ;  and,  surely,  we  have  experi- 
enced great  kindness  here.     And  though  dear  Lawrence 


A  BROKEN   REVERIE.  155 

and  Zilplia  have  had  to  leave  us,  let  us  he  thankful  that 
Lawrence  is  hetter,  and  that  the  news  of  this  misfortune 
did  not  come  in  time  to  keep  him  from  going." 

*'  Thankful !  Almost  your  first  word,  one  of  thankful- 
ness ;  mine,  one  of  murmuring.  Ah  !  mother,  how  your 
way  of  looking  at  things  ought  to  reprove  me  !  But  I 
can't  help  asking  myself,  ivhy^  when  G-od  has  the  control 
of  everything  in  His  hand,  He  does  not  make  things 
easier  to  His  children,  than  to  those  who  don't  even 
acknowledge  Him  as  their  Father  ?" 

"  Do  you  rememher,  my  dear,  the  passage  I  was  point- 
ing out  to  you  in  the  old  author  I  was  reading  last  Sah- 
hath  evening  ?  '  G-od's  providences,'  he  says,  '  are  some- 
times like  rivers  that  run  under  ground  ;  but  they  will 
rise  again,  a  delightful  stream,  with  some  new  medicinal 
quality  contracted  from  the  earth  by  the  way.'  It 
is  not  always  best  that  things  should  be  made  easy 
to  us.  G-od  will  give  us  what  we  need,  not  what  we 
think  we  need  ;  for  we  are  but  poor  judges  of  what  is  best 
for  us.  Worldly  prosperity  and  exemption  from  trial  He 
has  never  promised  to  His  children ;  yet,  even  here,  how 
much  of  good  is  mixed  with  their  necessary  chastisement ! 
and  beyond  them  is  Heaven,  where  all  is  blessedness, 
without  a  shadow  of  alloy.  AVith  those  who  deny  God  as 
their  Father,  how  different  is  it  all !  They  have,  it  is  true, 
prosperity  often,  as  if  God,  in  very  pity,  granted  them  ease 
and  exemption  from  ill  here,  because  He  knew  it  would 


156  SILVER  WOOD. 

be  their  only  good.  He  leaves  them  to  their  enjoyments, 
undisciplined ;  but  whom  He  loves,  He  chastens." 

"I  grow  better  as  you  talk,  mother.  Yes;  I  will 
believe  in  God's  goodness  and  love  still.  Before  this  letter 
came,  I  thought  passive  endurance  was  my  set  task ;  but 
anything  is  better  than  that.  Now,  perhaps,  there'll  be 
something  for  me  to  do.     "What  about  this  letter  ?" 

*'  I  will  write  to  Bryant,  and  get  him  to  go  and  see  Mr. 
Bryson  for  me." 

\  "He  will  fly  at  your  bidding,  I  know  ;  but  he  has  been 
so  much  called  off  from  his  duties  by  his  attentions  to 
us ;  besides,  could  he  effect  as  much  as  either  you  or  I  ?" 

"  But,  my  child,  I  can't  go  and  leave  you  alone  here." 

Edith  mused  a  few  minutes. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  said,  with  sudden  resolution. 

"  You  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Irvine,  incredulously. 

"  Mother,  I  feel  that  I  am  brave  and  strong,  when  I 
get  beyond  a  certain  point.  Wiien  my  physical  tendency 
to  succumb  is  conquered,  I  am  ready  for  almost  anything." 

"  That's  only  a  momentary  feeling.  Such  power  don't 
avail  you  for  any  sustained  effort." 

a  Try  me.  I'd  plead  with  that  dishonest,  smooth- 
tongued man,  till  I  shamed  him  into  doing  you  justice.  I 
believe  I  can  be  eloquent  sometimes,  under  high  mental 
excitement,  for  that  always  tends  to  calm  me  outwardly." 

"Who  could  have  believed  it?"  mused  Mrs.  Irvine,  as 
if  she  had  not  heard  Edith.  "  Mr.  Bryson  seemed  always 
so  kind,  and  I  trusted  him  so  fully." 


A  BROKEN  EEVERIE.  157 

''  Your  only  error  in  judgment, — forgive  me  for  saying 
it,  mother, — is,  that  you  are  so  lenient — you  judge  so 
kindly.  You  remind  me  often  of  your  old  Quaker  friend, 
of  whom  I've  heard  you  speak,  who  used  to  include  Satan 
himself  in  her  benevolence,  and  say,  '  Poor  fellow  !  I 
really  think  he's  lied  on  !'  " 

'"  Whose  experience  in  the  world  is  of  the  longest  stand- 
ing ?"  asked  Mr?.  Irvine,  with  a  half  smile.  "  Leniency 
is,  at  least,  a  failing  on  charity's  side;  but  I  own  I've 
been  mistaken  in  this  case." 

At  first,  the  idea  of  Edith  undertaking  to  go  on  such  an 
errand  to  the  distant  city,  seemed  preposterous  to  Mrs. 
Irvine ;  but,  on  turning  it  over  in  her  mind,  she  began  to 
conclude  that,  after  all,  it  was  not  so  unfeasible.  Mr. 
Bryson  would.  In  all  probability,  repel  Bryant — secure  in 
the  fact,  that  the  property  settled  on  his  wife,  sometime 
previous  to,  and  probably  in  anticipation  of,  his  failure, 
was  beyond  the  reach  of  law.  But  Edith's  pleadings  on 
behalf  of  a  widowed  mother,  and  an  invalid  brother,  might 
avail,  where  stronger  words  were  powerless.  Edith  might 
appeal,  too,  to  Mrs.  Bryson's  sense  of  justice  ; — a  woman, 
and  a  mother — she  might,  she  surely  must  yield.  It 
would  be  a  trial  of  Edith's  strength ;  but  a  salutary  one. 
She  was  growing  morbid  in  her  present  seclusion.  This 
compelled  glance  at  the  moving  world  again,  would  be  an 
advantage  to  her.  Her  over-sensitive  spirit  needed  some 
contact  with  the  outside  life  in  which  she  must  one  day 
take  her  part.     Yes ;  Edith  should  go.         . 


158  SILVEEWOOD. 

It  was  not  the  greater  of  the  two  difficulties  which  Mrs. 
Irvine  was  about  to  let  her  daughter  assume.  It  would 
have  been  easier  for  her  to  have  had  all  her  own  energies 
called  into  play  by  active  demands  upon  them,  than  to  be 
left  to  the  solitude  of  the  country,  with  only  the  compan- 
ionship of  the  two  children,  and  the  paltry,  but  imperative 
duties  which  fall  to  woman's  hands — keeping  them  buSy, 
but  leaving  the  mind,  like  the  winter-bound  bee,  to  feed 
itself  on  whatever  bitter  or  sweet  it  may  have  hived  for 
its  wants,  through  the  summer's  changing  sunshine  and 
shower. 

There  is  nothing  heroic  in  the  daily  performance  of 
things  so  trivial,  that  only  the  fact  of  their  being  duties 
gives  them  claim  to  the  slightest  dignity.  A  seamstress, 
with  few  ideas  ranging  beyond  her  needle's  point,  might, 
perhaps  as  well,  if  not  as  expeditiously,  have  accomplished 
this  part  of  Mrs.  Irvine's  tasks  ;  a  conscientious  governess 
have  explained  as  correctly,  though  surely  not  as  patiently 
and  lovingly,  the  lessons  which,  in  Edith's  place,  she 
would  now  daily  hear  ;  a  well-trained  servant  have  looked 
as  carefully,  if  not  with  such  economy  and  judiciousness, 
to  the  ways  of  her  household  ;  while  her  active,  vigorous, 
clear-seeing  intellect  should  be  left  free  to  exercise  its 
powers  on  things  more  in  keeping  with  its  abilities  ;  her  un- 
erring, discriminating  judgment  be  brought  to  bear  on 
subjects  worthier  of  its  capacities ;  her  quick,  exec- 
utive skill  be  tried  upon  a  range  of  higher  objects  ;  her 


A   BROKEN   REVERIE.  159 

remarkable  social  accomplislinients  have  a  sphere  of  wider 
influence  ;  her  light  not  be  hidden  among  the  shades  of 
the  nether  valley,  when  it  might  have  sent  a  trail  of  bright- 
ness from  some  ^'city  set  on  a  hill.*' 

Thus  might  Mrs.  Irvine  have  reasoned — thus  did  she 
not.  To  her,  the  path  of  duty  was  the  only  one  of  safety 
or  pleasure,  and  she  walked  on  in  it  with  a  beautiful  and 
buoyant  cheerfulness,  feeling  that  it  was  not  the  char- 
acter of  the  service   at  which  the   "  srreat  task-master" 

o 

looked,  but  the  spirit  of  its  performance  ;  that 

" God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  works,  or  His  own  gifts  ;" 

and  that  to  the  heart-searching  eye  of  the  unexacting  Ee- 
deemer,  who'-  sits  over  against  life's  treasury,  the  two 
mites  of  humble,  faithfully-rendered  obedience,  m.ay  far 
outweigh  the  rich  gifts  and  high-sounding  charities  of 
those  who  "cast  in  much  out  of  their  abundance"  of  op- 
portunity. Ah !  of  how  many  a  lonely  and  self-denying 
offerer,  who,  while  she  is  bringing  '•  all  the  living  that  she 
hath,"  is  yet  trembling  and  ashamed  to  think  the  gift  so 
small, — of  how  many  such  will  He  say — ''  She  hath  cast 
in  more  than  they  all  I" 

Only  a  few  days  had  passed,  when  an  incidental  stran- 
ger to  the  Ir vines,  but  well  known  to  many  of  their  Mil- 
burne  acquaintances,  was  discovered  to  be  passing  through 
the  village,  on  his  way  to  a  northern  city,  and  with  him 
it  was  arranofed  that  Edith  should  go  to . 


160  SILVERWOOD. 

''  But,  mother,"  she  said,  as  she  was  packing  her  trunk, 
the  night  previous  to  her  departure,  "  I  feel  so  unwilling 
to  leave  you  here  alone.  Suppose  you  and  the  children  go 
down  the  country,  to  Aunt  Maria's, — we  can  go  part  of 
the  way  together, — and  stay  there  till  I  am  ready  to  come 
back." 

"  That  would  involve  some  additional  expense  that  had 
as  well  he  avoided  now,"  said  Mrs.  Irvine  ;  "  besides,  it 
would  be  necessary,  then,  to  let  Lawrence  and  Zilpha 
know  of  these  difficulties,  a  thing  to  be  avoided,  at  all  haz- 
ards. No  ;  it  is  better  I  should  stay  here,  where  Provi- 
dence has  clearly  put  n^e,  and  be  content  to  let  the  issue 
of  all  things  rest  in  His  hand." 

"  One  thing  comforts  me,"  said  Edith.  "  I  will  not  be 
long  gone  ;  and  if  T  come  back  from  my  mission  success- 
ful, we  will  be  so  happy  again." 

'*  So  happy  again!"  Under  the  shadow  of  this  new 
cloud,  the  former  gloom,  which  Edith  had  felt  to  be  op- 
pressive enough,  appeared  a  comparative  brightness.  So 
relative  a  thing  is  our  happiness  !  We  cower  shiveringly 
beneath  the  creeping  mists  that  may  have  gathered  over 
us,  persuading  ourselves  that  all  the  light  is  darkened 
away  from  our  path ;  but,  as  the  gloom  really  deepens, 
and  we  are  compelled  onward  into  the  obscurity,  we  look 
back  to  the  point  we  had  thought  so  shaded,  and  wonder 
it  had  not  then,  the  clearness  we  see  about  it  now. 


IV. 

%  JfasljionaWe  ^eltonie; 

'  It  was  the  first  week  in  December.  The  leaden,  fleecy- 
looking  clouds  had  been  spitting  snow  all  day ;  and  now, 
as  the  evening  closed  in,  Jacqueline  Dubois  put  aside  the 
damask  drapery  of  the  window,  and  stood  gazing  aimlessly 
into  the  street,  along  which  the  foot-passengers  were  hur- 
rying, with  heads  bent  to  shield  their  faces  from  the  gath- 
ering storm  of  snow-flakes. 

"  An  odd  hour  for  anybody  to  make  a  visit,"  solilo- 
quized the  young  lady,  as  a  carriage  suddenly  drew  up 
before  the  door.  "  A  trunk  behind.  It  must  be  some- 
body from  the  cars.  Bless  me  !  I  hope  it  isn't  Anne  Ste- 
vens, coming  from  the  country,  to  bore  me  to  death  with 
a  visit.  John,"  she  called  to  her  brother,  who  was  loll- 
ing on  a  sofa,  in  a  distant  part  of  the  room,  "  do  come 
and  see  who  it  is." 

"  If  it's  Miss  Stevens,"  said  the  young  man,  walking 
leisurely  to  the  window,  "  she'll  need  something  more  to 


162  SILVERWOOD. 

warm  her  than  your  welcome.  But  it  isn't — luckily  for 
her  own  sake." 

"  Well,  I  breathe  freer.     But  who  is  it  ?" 

^'  If  I  didn't  know  them  to  be  in  Virginia,  I  should  say 
it  was  one  of  the  Irvines." 

''  Nonsense  !  What  would  bring  any  of  them  back  at 
this  season  ?" 

By  this  time  the  new-comer  had  rung,  and  been  admit- 
ted. *  Dr.  Dubois  stepped  into  the  hall,  where  the  lamp 
had  been  lighted. 

a  Why,  Miss  Edith  !  is  it  you  ?"  his  sister  heard  him 
exclaiming.  But  the  opening  of  the  outer  door  had  admit- 
ted some  of  the  chilling  night-air  ;  so  the  prudent  Jacque- 
line awaited  the  visitor  in  the  drawing-room. 

''  Edith  Irvine,  I  declare !"  she  cried,  with  uplifted 
hands.  "  Why,  I  thought  you  domesticated  Avith  the 
turkeys,  and  chickens,  and  little  Congoes,  down  on  your 
Virginia  plantation ;"  and  kissing  her,  she  led  her  to  a 
sofa,  and  ordered  one  of  the  chandaliers,to  be  lit. 

"  Didn't  your  papa  tell  you  I  was  coming  ?"  asked 
Edith.     <'  Mother  wrote  him  that  I  was." 

"  Not  a  word  of  it.  Just  like  him.  He's  fond  of  letting 
one  find  out  things  for  one's  self.  But  you  didn't  come 
alone  ?" 

Edith  recouuted  the  few  incidents  of  her  uneventful 
journey;  and  then  was  called  on,  in  turn,  to  listen  to 
Jacqueline's  stream  of  talk. 


A   FASHIONABLE   WELCOME.  163 

*'  Don't  you  think  me  improved  since  you  saw  me  last, 
Edith  ?  I  plame  myself  on  constantly  adding  charms  ;" 
and  she  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  adjusted  her  flounces  before 
the  tall  pier-glass,  that  stretched  from  the  floor  to  the 
carved  cornice  of  the  ceiling. 

"  Miss  Edith,"  began  Dr.  Dubois,  mischievously,  "  I'm 
really  glad  you've  come.  Jacqueline  is  getting  so  insuf- 
ferable vain,  that  I  trust  to  have  your  aid  in  pluckmg  her 
plumes." 

"  The  sober  truth  is,  Edith,"  said  the  young  lady,  sub- 
siding into  a  luxurious  chair,  and  disposing  her  rich  fall 
of  drapery  with  an  artistic  grace  quite  natural  to  her  in 
affairs  of  the  toilette,  ''  my  brother  John  is  continually 
snubbing  me.  I  suppose  he  thinks  I  hear  so  many  pretty 
things,  that  something  of  the  sort  is  necessary  to  help  me 
keep  my  equilibrium ;  for  I  love  compliments — I  love  to 
be  told  that  I'm  graceful,  and  pretty,  and  have  un  air 


"  There  it  is  !"  exclaimed  Dr.  Dubois,  rising  with  a  kind 
of  mock  provocation.  "  Miss  Edith,  do  you  ever  hear 
anything  quite  so  bare-faced  as  that  among  your  Virginia 
belles  ?" 

"  So  ho7iest^  you  meant  to  say,  Griovanni  ;  but  take  my 
acknowledgments ;"  and  Jacqueline  bowed  her  really 
most  sylph-like  figure  before  him — "  take  them  for  the 
implied  compliment  to  my  bellehood.  You  see,  Edith,  he 
lets  the  truth  out,  in  spite  of  himself." 


164  SILVERWOOD. 

All  this  time  Edith  had  sat  with  her  bonnet  still  on, 
and  her  wrappings  unremoved.  Feeling  the  rooms  warm, 
after  the  keen  outer  air,  she  unfastened  the  fur  about  her 
neck. 

"  Jacqueline,"  said  Dr.  Dubois,  "will  you  permit  me  to 
suggest  -that  Miss  Edith  be  invited  to  lay  off  her  travelling 
gear  ?     She  must  be  tired  wearing  it  all  day." 

"  Ah  !  pardon,  Edith  I  "We  city  people  are  so  used  to 
callers,  that  we  forget  bonnets  can  be  laid  off.  But  come ;" 
and  rising,  with  an  indolent  grace,  Jacqueline  led  the 
way  up  stairs. 

Old  Mr.  Dubois  was  in  the  conservatory,  into  which  the 
windows  of  the  back  drawing-room  opened,  as  into  a  gar- 
den of  sweets,  when  the  two  ladies  entered  again  ;  and 
in  his  absorbed  interest  in  having  a  servant  arrange  some 
favorite  azalias,  where  the  light  from  the  chandalier  w^ould 
show  off  their  white  and  salmon-colored  blooms  to  the 
best  advantage,  he  had  not  noticed  Edith's  presence,  nor 
had  his  inconsiderate  daughter  remembered  to  announce 
it  to  him. 

"  That  will  do,  Martin,"  he  said,  as  he  stepped  back  into 
the  room,  through  one  of  the  glass  doors,  and  put  entirely 
aside  the  crimson  hangings.  "  Now  come,  Jacqueline, 
and  see  how  grand  a  show  my  pets  make." 

"  Pets,  indeed,"  said  Jacqueline,  coming  forward  from 
the  other  room,  followed  by  Edith.  "  I  believe,  papa^  you 
pay  more  attention  to  your  flowers  than  to  me." 


A  FASHIONABLE  WELCOME.  165 

''  '  My  ducats  and  my  daughter,'  eh  ?  "Well,  you  see 
your  parties,  and  operas,  and  what  not,  take  you  away, 
and  I  can't  have  you  for  my  plaything  any  more  ;  so 
the  old  man  must  make  pets  of  his  flowers.  But  who 
have  w^e  here  ?"  and  he  turned  round  to  Edith.  "  Dear 
me,  Jacqueline,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  she  had  come  ?" 
and  he  seized  her  hands  with  a  warm,  cordial  welcome. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  she  w^as  coming,  papa  ?" 

"  I  did,  my  dear ;  but  you  had  an  invitation  to  some- 
where or  other  in  your  hand  at  the  time  ;  so,  I  suppose, 
that  knocked  it  out  of  your  thoughtless  little  head.  But 
how  are  all  at  home,  Edith,  my  child  ?  Law^rence — when 
did  you  hear  from  him  ?" 

''  Bless  me  I  yes,  I  forgot  to  ask  !"  exclaimed  Jacque- 
line.    "  And  Zilpha — how  is  she  ?" 

"  Well,  when  I  last  heard.  She  is  with  Law^rence,  in 
the  West  Indies." 

"  In  the  West  Indies  ?  for  the  winter,  I  suppose.  How 
delightful  !" 

"  I  expect  Lawrence  would  think  home  more  so,"  said 
Dr.  Dubois,  who,  more  mindful  than  his  sister,  had  been 
interesting  himself  in  inquiries  of  Edith,  while  Jacque- 
line had  been  standing  before  the  mirror,  arranging  a 
spray  of  natural  flowers  amidst  the  folds  of  her  luxuriant 
hair. 

An  hour  or  two  wore  away  in  pleasant  conversation 
between  Edith  and  the  two  gentlemen.     Jacqueline  de- 


166  SILVER  WOOD. 

clared  herself  exhausted  by  her  last  night's  party;  and,  so 
piling  the  embroidered  cushions  about  her,  she  reclined 
herself  upon  a  sofa,  after  due  attention  to  the  most  grace- 
ful disposition  of  the  never-forgotten  drapery ;  and  with 
closed  eyes,  lay  like  a  dreaming  Hebe.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  her  to  think  that  Edith  might  be  hungry,  after 
her  long  day's  journey,  and  consequently  no  orders  had 
been  given  to  have  the  usually  late  tea  hastened  any  on 
her  account.  One  and  another  gentleman  visitor  dropped 
in,  until  quite  a  bevy  were  surrounding  Jacqueline,  who, 
leaning  among  her  cushions,  in  a  sort  of  oriental  languor, 
was  dispensing  smiles  with  as  seemingly  careless  a  grace, 
as  the  fine,  full-flowering  heliotrope  on  the  tall,  bronze  tri- 
pod near  her,  was  diffusing  its  odors. 

-Just  as  Dr.  Dubois  had  his  hand  on  the  bell  to  summon 
the  tea,  the  servants  entered  with  the  trays,  much  to  his 
relief ;  for  he  had  been  fidgeting  for  the  last  half  hour, 
having  found  out  from  Edith  that  she  had  gone  dinnerless 
that  day.  The  edibles  were  of  the  slighest  description — 
black  tea,  delicate  French  rolls,  some  pickled  oysters, 
and  a  basket  of  macaroons  ;  quite  enough,  after  the  late 
dinners  all  present,  with  the  exception  of  Edith,  had  risen 
from,  only  two  or  three  hours  before,  but  rather  meagre 
for  the  whetted  appetite  of  a  traveller.  While  Dr.  Dubois 
was  putting  the  sugar  and  cream  in  her  tea,  Edith's  eye 
rested  upon  the  silver  bread- tray,  on  the  edge  of  which 
she   read  the  words,    "  Z>e  thankful, ^"^    embossed   in    old 


A  FASHIONABLE   WELCOME.  167 

black-letter  characters.  Her  momentary  stirrings  of  hm't 
feeling,  at  Jacqueline's  want  of  consideration, — for  that 
was  what  she  felt  it  to  be, — subsided  at  that  mute  rebuke ; 
and,  pointing  to  it,  she  made  some  remark  about  the  ap- 
propriateness of  the  device. 

'^  I  should  like  to  know  in  what  way  it  is  particularly 
appropriate  to  i/ou,  under  present  circumstances.  Miss 
Edith  ;"  for  the  doctor  had  not  quite  overcome  his  feeling 
of  annoyance  ; — "  that  you're  not  starved  outright  ?  Well, 
I  own  that  is  something  to  'be  thankful'  for.  But  re- 
ally"— and  he  glanced  over  the  waiter  of  tea-things, — 
^'  really,  with  such  Titania  provision  as  this,  you  are  not 
fortified  against  it  yet.  Away,  Martin,  and  tell  the  house- 
keeper to  send  up  a  couple  of  breakfast-cups  of  her  best 
coffee,  within  fifteen  minutes  ;  and  d'ye  hear  ?  let  them 
be  flanked  with  some  cold  turkey,  or  a  few  slices  of  beef 
a  la  7node,  and  such  a  plate  of  buttered  bread  as  may 
reasonably  satisfy  hungry  people." 

Edith  protested  against  the  order,  but  the  doctor  was 
imperative ;  and  while  she  still  contested  the  point,  fear- 
ing Jacqueline  might  feel  chagrined,  the  servant  returned 
to  say  the  coffee  was  in  course  of  preparation. 

"' A  fellow-feeling,'  &c. — you  remember  the  old  line, 
Miss  Edith  ;  for,  indeed,  I  was  not  allowed  to  finish  my 
dinner  to  my  own  satisfaction.  Physicians  are  the  veriest 
slaves  of  society — subject  to  any  and  every  man's  beck." 

"  I  wonder,  then,  that  the  entire  '  faculty'  don't  unite, 


168  SILVER  WOOD. 

to  a  man,  and  raise  a  crusade  against  the  luxuries  and 
indulojences  that  are  makins^  us  a  nation  of  invalids.  And 
yet,"  said  Edith,  smiling,  "  here  you  are,  substituting  the 
stimulant  of  a  cup  of  coffee,  for  one  of  harmless  black  tea  ; 
and  most  unprofessionally,  too,  setting  me  the  bad  exam- 
ple of  drinking  it  yourself." 

"  Physicians  are  like  sign-boards.  Miss  Edith — while 
their  theories,  on  the  subject  of  dietetics,  may  point  out  a 
safe  path  for  others,  they  are  not  generally  found  following 
it  themselves.  As  to  coffee  and  tea,  you're  right  enough; 
but  I  have  a  most  un-English  dislike  of  the  one,  and  a 
most  French  penchant  for  the  other, — the  consequence  of 
having  had  a  Huguenot  great-grandfather,  perhaps  !  Be 
that  as  it  may,  I  can  associate  nothing  hospitable,  com- 
fortable, cozy  or  poetical,  with  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  Cowper  and  Mrs.  Unwin,  to  the  contrary,  notwith- 
standing ?" 

"  Yes  ;  for  while  it  certainly  is  not  the  cup  that  '  ine- 
briates,' it  fails,  just  as  surely,  to  '  cheer.'  However,  I 
expect  to  sit  up  half  the  night,  with  a  very  ill  patient, 
which  may  account  for  a  departure  from  my  usual  glass 
of  cold  water — since  you  compel  me  to  boast  of  my  So- 
cratic  self-control ;  and  as  for  yourself.  Miss  Edith,  you 
need  a  gentle  excitant,  after  the  fatigues  of  a  day's  travel. 
Ah  I  here  it  is,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  hands  together,  with 
his  accustomed  good  humor  perfectly  restored,  as  the  ser- 
vant presented  the  salver,  "  as  clear  as  sherry,  and  more 


A  FASHIONABLE  WELCOME.  169 

fragrant  than  all  the  spicery  of  Arabia  Felix.  '  Dum  viv- 
imus^ — you  know  the  familiar  motto  ;  so  we'll  practice 
on  it,  even  at  the  risk  of  some  loss  of  sleep  to-night." 

Jacqueline  had  quite  forgotten  her  role — the  drooping 
languor  was  gone  from  her  laughing,  gipsey  eyes — the 
cushions  were  thrown  aside,  and  she  sat,  all  sprightliness 
and  gaiety,  with  a  semi-circle  of  amused  listeners  and 
talkers  about  her,  till  the  chimes  from  a  neighboring  stee- 
ple told  that  it  wanted  only  an  hour  of  midnight — an 
entire  contrast  to  the  wearied  thing  she  had  seemed  to  be 
before  her  visitors  came. 

Old  Mr.  Dubois  had,  long  since,  taken  a  good-night  look 
at  his  flowers,  and  retired.  Edith  had  been  so  much 
entertained  by  the  doctor's  reminiscences  of  a  residence 
in  Paris,  that  she  had  forgotten  her  own  need  of  rest — 
only  vexed  with  the  apprehension  that  he  was  devoting 
time  to  her  that  would  have  been  otherwise  employed,  had 
his  sister  been  mindful  of  a  hostess'  duties  ;  for  she  remem- 
bered his  allusion  to  some  professional  call. 

"  Miss  Edith  must  have  been  wishing  that  you  were 
less  engaging  to-night,  Jacqueline,"  said  her  brother,  after 
the  last  gentleman  had  withdrawn. 

"  For  what,  pray  ?"  asked  Jacqueline,  rising,  with  a 
wearied  yawn,  and  pausing  before  the  mirror,  as  she 
passed  it,  to  note  the  precise  expression  of  lip  and  eye 
which  the  departing  guests  may  have  carried  away  ; 
"  because  it  suggested  something  unkind,  in  making 
myself  such  a  foil  to  you,  eh  ?" 


170  SILVERWOOD. 

^'  That's  for  Miss  Edith  to  say.  I'm  afraid  Time  trav- 
elled over  the  two  hours  we  were  awaiting  your  leisure, 
with  his  leaden  boots  on — ■" 

''  No,  indeed,"  interrupted  Edith.  ''  I  can  testify  to  his 
borrowing  Mercury's  sandals." 

"Pity,  Messrs.  Fox,  Swinton,  Dawson  and  Co.,  couldn't 
have  been  shod  therewith  I  Their  soles  need  wings,  Jac- 
queline ; — why  didn't  you  barb  them  with  the  feathers  of 
your  wit  ?" 

"  That  would  have  involved  a  little  borins: — a  thino^ 
I'm  never  addicted  to,"  said  Jacqueline,  snullily,  though 
she  laughed  while  she  spoke.  "  With  your  lancet  as  your 
awl,  to  follow  up  your  own  elegant  figure,  I  dare  say, 
you  bored  Edith — only  she's  too  polite  to  let  you  know 
it—" 

''  Oh !  no  such  thing  !"  interrupted  Edith. 

"  Too  considerate^  at  least,"  said  Dr.  Dubois,  "  to  inti- 
mate how  tired  she  is  with  her  long  day's  journey." 

"  Bless  me!  I  forgot!"  exclaimed  Jacqueline.  "  I  ex- 
pect you  are  tired,  Edith.     I  didn't  think  of  it  before." 


XVI. 


litaHast-CaHe  mil 


Nature  had  been  busy  all  the  night,  fashioning  for  the 
earth's  shivering  bosom,  an  ermine  robe  of  snow,  as  Edith 
perceived  on  her  first  glimpse  from  her  chamber  window, 
the  mornins^  after  her  arrival.  Mr.  Dubois  and  his  son 
were  in  possession  of  the  breakfast-room  when  she  descend- 
ed ;  and  there  svas  abundance  of  time  for  the  reading  of 
the  morning  papers  over  their  coffee  and  muffins,  before 
Jacqueline  made  her  appearance. 

"Up  already?"  she  said,  giving  a  finger  to  Edith,  by 
way  of  morning  salutation.  "After  the  fatigues  of  last 
night,  G-iovanni,  I  should  have  reckoned  on  your  ordering 
breakfast  up  to  Edith,  to  strengthen  her  for  the  exertion 
of  rising." 

"  Miss  Edith's  true  Americanism  would  have  disdained 
anything  quite  so  Parisian  and  disagreeable,"  replied  Dr. 
Dubois. 


172  SILVERWOOD. 

''  And  charming,  I  think,"  said  Jacqueline.  ''  I  wish 
papa  wouldn't  interdict  my  being  as  French  as  my  name  ; 
then  every  morning  I'd  have  myself  wakened  hy  a  pretty 
grisette,  with  a  Sevres  bowl  of  chocolate  on  a  little  silver 
salver ;  and  she  should  lay  her  dainty  serviette  under  my 
chin,  administer  her  draught,  and  leave  me  to  simmer  an 
hour  or  so,  in  the  delicious  state  between  sleeping  and  wa- 
king that  I  love  so  much." 

"  All  that  would  be  very  suggestive  of  your  brother's 
craft,  to  me,"  said  Edith.  "  I  think  I  would  almost 
rather  have  to  earn  my  own  breakfast  before  I  ate  it,  than 
take  it  in  that  way." 

"  But  for  what,  pray,  should  I  get  up  early  ?"  asked 
Jacqueline,  "  To  see  papa  and  my  brother  burying  them- 
selves behind  wet  sheets,  like  very  hydropathists,  while  I 
sat  by,  and  twirled  my  thumbs,  a  silent  victim  to  the  all- 
engrossing  power  of  the  press,  eh  ?  Commend  me  rather 
to  my  broken  morning  dozes." 

"  To  speak  professionally,  Jacqueline,"  interrupted  Dr. 
Dubois,  throwing  aside  his  paper,  "  sleep  is  much  less  ef- 
fective in  broken  doses,  than  when  taken  as  a  whole.  As 
to  being  victimized.  Miss  E^th  don't  seem  to  have  been 
so,  from  the  zest  with  which  she  has  been  running  over 
this  article  on  '  Memorable  Women,'  in  one  of  these  En- 
glish magazines.  I  venture  to  affirm  it  has  proved  a 
pleasanter  excitative  than  your  supposititious  bowl  of 
chocolate." 


BREAKFAST-TABLE  TALK.  173 

"  I  rather  detest  your  memorable  women,"  replied  Jac- 
queline, with  something  of  a  sneer  curling  her  pretty  lip  ; 
''for,  of  course,  those  are  meant,  who  do  something  out- 
side the  limits  set  our  sex.  All  this  rant  about  'superiority' 
and  'inferiority' — about  'sympathies'  and  'cravings,'  and 
the  'want  of  a  career,'  and  so  on,  is  just  so  much  nonsense. 
AYhat  other  career  does  a  pretty  girl  want,  than,  with 
plenty  of  money  at  her  disposal,  for  all  the  demands  of  le 
beau  monde^  and  plenty  of  admirers,  and  soirees^  and  op- 
eras, and  all  that, — to  sparkle  through  her  days  of  belle- 
dom ;  and  then,  when  that's  over,  take  refuge  in  mat- 
rimony,— become  the  mistress  of  an  elegant  mansion,  and 
a  leader  of  ton.     This  is  sphere  enough  for  me." 

"  Well,  you're  honest,  at  least,  in  your  confessions," 
said  Dr.  Dubois ;  "  but  mere  honesty  can't  excuse  you, 
any  more  than  it  did  Rousseau." 

"  Bless  me  !     Don't  put  me  in  such  a  category." 

"  By  no  means,  of  course.  I  only  spoke  of  confessions. 
You  have  uttered  the  sentiments,  Jacqueline,  of  about 
three-fourths  of  all  the  women  in  fashionable  life ;  and 
pitiable,  enough,  I  confess,  does  'the  career'  seem  to  me." 

"  Ah  I  my  spoiled  child  I"  ifiterposed  Mr.  Dubois,  folding 
up  the  sheet  behind  which  he  had  been  hidden,  as  he 
caught  Jacqueline's  designation  of  '  a  sphere  ;'  "  you'll 
come  to  be  of  a  better  mind  after  while,  I  hope.  Don't  it 
ever  occur  to  you,  that  women  were  meant  to  be  of 
some  use  in  the  world  ?" 

"  Of  course,  papa — some  of  them  are  like  the  cabbage 


174  SILVERWOOD. 

and  turnips  of  the  kitchen-garden,  and  their  vocation  is 
clear  enough  :  other  are  like  the  roses  and  lilies  of  your 
conservatory — their  duty  is  to  look  pretty  and  be  sweet. 
Now  which  do  you  like  best — our  cook's  turnips,  that  send 
up  such  unsavory  odors  from  the  kitchen  sometimes,  or 
your  ^Daphne  odorata  ?'  " 

"  You've  attacked  me  on  my  weak  point,  child,"  said 
her  father,  laughing ;  ''but  if  the  worst  should  come  to 
the  worst,  I  should  give  the  preference  to  Janet's  turnips, 
for  I  could  live  on  them  ;  but  I  would  find  rose-leaves 
rather  a  Paphian  diet." 

"  You  would  banish  from  your  orbit,  then,"  said  Edith, 
''  into  some  outer  limbo,  all  who  couldn't  perform  the  duty 
of  looking  pretty,  or  were  not  rich,  or  were  troubled  with  a 
surplus  of  that  most  undesirable  supernumerary  in  a  wo- 
man— intellect." 

''  Undesirable,  Miss  Edith?"  asked  Dr.  Dubois. 

"  Yes  ;  as  the  world  goes  :  at  least  I'm  half  inclined  to 
think  that  genius  should  all  be  man's,  and  only  talent,  wo- 
man's." 
^    <'  "Why  such  a  distinction?" 

"  Because  genius  demands  a  wide  range — an  unob- 
structed field  for  its  exercise — and  that  is  not  allotted  us ; 
or,  if  so,  granted  stintedly  and  grudgingly." 

"  Then  you  would  cross  swords  with  that  malicious 
thing  we  call  'the  world,'  along  with  the  Amazonian  tribe 
who  are  fighting  for  a  '  wider  sphere  ?'  Ah  !  Miss  Edith, 
I  had  hoped  better  of  you." 


BREAKFAST-TABLE   TALK.  175 

"  By  no  means  !  I'm  perfectly  content  to  have  the 
barriers  just  where  they  are,  since  I  believe  Providence 
designed  this  circumscription.  I  firmly  believe  our  sex 
was  commanded  to  be  'under  obedience,'  as  part  of  the 
primal  curse.  Our  regeneration  is  being  worked  out  as 
Christianity  makes  progress  ;  and  who  knows  but  that  the 
balances  may  be  even,  by  the  time  we  have  reached  the 
edge  of  the  millenium,"  added  Edith,  with  a  smile. 

*'  Or  that  your  side  may  not  'kick  the  beam,' "  contin- 
ued Dr.  Dubois,  in  the  same  strain.  ''  Wouldn't  there  be 
a  '  turning  of  the  tables'  then  ?" 

"  And  something  more  than  a  'rapping  of  spirits^''  I'm 
thinking,"  pursued  Mr.  Dubois.  "  But,  Edith,  that  doc- 
trine of  obedience  chimes  in  with  my  ideas  exactly." 

Edith  might  have  reminded  him  that  his  theory  must 
be  very  vague,  since  it  was  evident  he  had  never  reduced 
it  to  any  practice  upon  his  daughter  ;  for  she  thought  it^ 
though  she  did  not  speak  it.  He  felt  it  himself,  perhaps, 
for  he  added  : 

"  I  wish  you  would  set  Jacqueline  straight.  She  is  a 
bona  fide  believer  in  women's  rights." 

"  Oh,  papa,  how  can  you  say  so  ?"  exclaimed  Jacque- 
line. "  I  only  mean  so  far  as  having  as  much  money  as 
one  wants,  and  going  where  one  pleases,  and  doing  what 
one  likes." 

"  Having  as  much  money  as  you  want,"  said  Dr.  Du- 
bois, "  embraces  the  control   of  all  the  finances.    Going 


176  SILVERWOOD. 

where,  and  doing  what  you  like,  is  comprehensive  enough 
to  take  in  all  female  M.  D.'s,  attorneys,  divines,  steam- 
boat captains,  and  so  on." 

*'  How  you  exaggerate  !"  said  Jacqueline,  with  a  pro- 
voked air.  "  You  know,  well  enough,  that  I  think  the 
whole  tribe  of  such  creatures  hideous — ^just  made  up  of 
soured  old  maids,  who  couldn't  inveigle  anybody  into  mar- 
rying them,  and  so  run  a  tilt  against  all  man  kind ;  or,  of 
viragos,  who  have  had  meek  husbands  to  hen-peck,  and 
so  wondered  why  all  wives  couldn't  do  as  they  did." 

*'  And  women  in  want  of  a  career,  who  are  not  old 
maids,"  added  Edith. 

"Want  of  a  fiddlestick  !"  said  Jacqueline. 

"  No,  of  a  master,  my  dear,"  interrupted  her  father  j 
"or  a  husband — as  you  please." 

"  But,  Miss  Edith,"  said  Dr.  Dubois,  "I've  been  accus- 
tomed to  think  that  intellect,  under  all  circumstances, 
was  an  unconditional  blessing — one  of  heaven's  most 
precious  gifts — " 

"  To  man — undoubtedly." 

"  And  why  not  to  woman  ?" 

"  It  makes  her  restless  ;  it  puts  temptations  before  her 
to  leave  the  beaten  track — a  thing  always  objectionable 
for  a  woman.  If  she  is  conscious  of  these  noble  strivings 
within  her,  she  does  feel  hampered  by  the  restraints  soci- 
ty  imposes.  If  she  puts  herself  in  print,  she  belongs  no 
more  to  herself — she  has  taken  the  public  into  partner- 


BREAKFAST-TABLE    TALK.  177 

ship — SO  it  thinks  ;  and  a  thousand  things,  thenceforth, 
wound  her  sensitive  womanhood  :  or,  if  she  make  the 
drawing-room  the  theatre  of  her  triumphs,  that  seems 
idle,  when  she  might  move  thinking  men  with  her  elo- 
quent words  :  or  the  round  of  '  woman's  duties,'  however 
conscientiously  performed,  will  grow  irksome,  through  the 
sense  of  unoccupied  power, — so  disproportioned  to  the 
objects  on  which  it  is  brought  to  bear, — like  setting  a 
steam-engine  to  boil  a  tea-kettle." 

"  But,  in  your  eagerness  to  make  out  your  position,  you 
narrow  too  much  the  influence  woman  may  legitimately 
wield.  Think  what  drawing-rooms  have  accomplished — 
Madame  Roland's,  for  instance ;  or  Madame  De  Stael's." 

"  Yes  ;  what  ?  for  their  owners,  death,  and  exile.  But 
the  women,  apart  from  their  surroundings, — for  their  in- 
tellect had  nothing  to  do  with  the  horror  of  their  times, — 
the  women  themselves  we  are  accustomed  to  rank  among 
the  masculine  specimens  of  their  sex.  We  can't  help 
wishing  their  husbands  might  have  changed  places  with 
them." 

"  Madame  Roland  is  one  of  my  heroines." 

"  But  you  would  not  have  loved  her  ;  and  that,  you 
men  delight  to  think,  is  what  woman  was  made  for." 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  rising  to  go,  "  say  what  you 
please  about  intellect  never  inspiring  love ;  but  a  wo- 
man all  heart,  is  like  a  dinner  all  dessert.     One  is  as 

8 


178  SILYERWOOD. 

essential  to  the  lovableness  of  the  perfect  woman,  as  the 
other,  in  my  opinion." 

"  Then  you  differ  from  the  facts  in  the  case.  Literary 
and  intellectual  men  are  proverbially  famous  for  their 
namby-pamby  wives." 

''  Ah  !  I  see — woman-like — that  you  will  not  yield, 
Miss  Edith.     So  good-morning." 


X?II. 

dealings  luitlj  a  |Baii  d  fuisincss. 

Jacqueline  had  an  hour's  lesson  with  an  Italian  n^iaster 
before  her  ;  so  she  left  Edith  with  her  father,  wondering 
aloud  "  why  she  was  so  foolish,  anyhow,  as  to  bind  herself 
down  this  way,  like  a  child."  But  then,  Caroline  Ash- 
mead,  one  of  the  most  dazzling  of  her  friends,  sang  Italian 
finely,  and  was  correspondingly  admired  for  it ;  so  she 
must  not  be  behind  her. 

''  "Well,  Edith,"  began  Mr.  Dubois,  taking  off  his  spec« 
tacles,  and  changing  his  seat  to  her  side,  as  soon  as  the 
breakfast  things  were  removed,  "  you  are  really  a  brave 
girl  to  undertake  the  mission  you  have  ;  for,  I  suppose,  of 
course,  my  letter  fb  your  mother,  is  the  occasion  of  your 
coming." 

Edith  explained'  how  it  was ;  and  then  followed  an 
account  of  the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Bryson  had  happened 
to  be  entrusted  so  much  with  the  manasrement  of  their 

o 

pecuniary  affairs. 


180  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Your  mother  has  so  much  discrimination,"  said  Mr. 
Dubois,  when  she  had  finished,  ''  that  I'm  surprised  she 
has  been  so  deceived  in  this  man ;  and  yet,  sometimes,  I 
don't  know  whether  to  pity  or  despise  him  most.  I  never 
did  think  there  was  anything  high-toned  about  him  ;  but 
my  son  tells  me, — for  I've  drifted  out  of  the  current  of 
things  myself,  Edith,  into  my  quiet  cove  here,  and  don't 
know  much  of  what's  going  on,  from  personal  observation, 
— but  John  tells  me  that  his  wife  is  at  the  bottom  of  his 
difficulties.  She  is  an  ambitious,  extravagant  woman — 
gives  grand  parties — is  a  patroness  of  art — loves  to  be 
surrounded  with  long-bearded  foreigners  ;  and  is  as  much 
the  awe,  as  she  is  the  admiration  of  her  husband.  Do  you 
know  her  ?" 

*'  Never  have  seen  her.  Mr.  Bryson  was  an  acquaint- 
ance of  my  father,  and  managed  some  business  transactions 
once  very  well  for  him  ;  and,  after  his  death,  my  mother 
continued  to  intrust  him  with  them,  as  I  was  telling  you. 
Lawrence  was  not  satisfied  with  his  agency  in  the  affair 

of  the   Bank,  and  was  averse  to  putting  the  proceeds 

of  the  sale  of  our  place  at  B ,  in  his  hands  for  invest- 
ment ;  but  his  own  health  became  so  shattered  about  the 
time,  that  in  our  anxiety  for  him,  it  was  done  without 
much  reflection." 

"  And  what  investment  did  he  make  ?" 

"  We  never  heard  a  word  from  him  about  it." 

''  I'll  tell  you  how  he  disposed  of  your  money — put  it 


DEALINGS  WITH  A  MAN  OF  BUSINESS.  181 

into  his  own  pocket,  possibly  intending,  when  he  had 
used  it  as  a  little  help  to  himself  in  his  embarrassments, — 
for  his  wife  has  not  reduced  their  style  of  living  in  the 
least, — to  invest  it,  and  then  patch  up  some  story  to  cover 
the  failure  of  interest." 

"  If  he  is  such  a  man  as  that,"  said  Edith,  discour- 
agedly,  ''  it  will  have  been  useless  for  me  to  have  come 
here." 

"  There's  something  cowardly  about  him,  though,  and 
my  hope  for  you  is  there.  He  couldn't  look  you  fairly  in 
the  eye — that,  however,  was  a  thing  he  didn't  use  to  do 
in  his  most  prosperous  days,  and  gave  me  my  first  distrust 
of  him ;  for,  depend  upon  it,  a  man  who  skulks  away 
from  the  windows  at  which  his  soul  should  look  out,  is 
afraid  to  let  that  soul's  countenance  be  seen." 

''  With  such  a  piir  to  deal  with,  my  case  is  rather 
hopeless,  I  fear." 

"  But  he  prides  himself  on  his  gentlemanliness — is  au 
fait  on  all  points  of  etiquette,  and  is  as  sensitive  about 
his  honor ^  as  a  parvenu  on  the  score  of  position  ;  so  a 
lady,  a  young  lady,  the  daughter  of  his  early  friend,  can 
avail  herself  of  all  this." 

"  You  think,  then,  at  least,  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction 
of  being  cheated  with  all  the  grace  of  a  French  shopman, 
if  I  am  cheated." 

"  No  doubt  ;  but  I  hope  I'm  too  hard  on  him.  I  can't 
believe  him  wholly  dead  to  any  sense  of  justice.  The  sum 
is  at  least  worth  trying  for." 


182  SILVERWOOD. 

"  It  is  almost  our  all,"  said  Edith,  with  a  disturbed 
face. 

"  But  you  have  your  plantation  in  Virginia,  unembar- 
rassed ?" 

"  Our  plantation,  as   you  are  pleased   to  call   it,  or  my 

brother's — for   my  father  left  it   to   him — only  consists  of 

the  old  homestead  built  by  my  grandfather, — once,  indeed, 

surrounded  by  broad  acres,  but  now  having  only  some  fifty 

or  so  left,  and  they  in  a  very  neglected  condition,  owing 

f-  ■ 
to  the  place  having  been  for  some  time  untenanted,  and 

managed  only  by  a  few  negroes." 

"Poor  child  !"  said  Mr.  Dubois,  musingly  ;  but  his  words 
seemed  to  have  reference  to  Mrs.  Irvine,  for  he  continued — 
"  with  that  pretty  fortune  she  had  at  her  marriage,  who'd 
have  thoQght  it?  Pity  it  hadn't  been  settled  upon 
herself" 

"  She  says  my  father  proposed  it,  but  she  told  him  she 
was  not  afraid  to  trust  her  money  in  the  hands  to  which 
she  entrusted  her  self ^ 

"  A  wise  precaution,  nevertheless." 

"  I  can't  see  it  so,  sir.  It  tends  to  cause  a  division  of 
interests  where  there  should  be  but  one.  Besides,  what 
true  wife  would  ever  withhold  the  means  that  might 
extricate  her  husband  from  difficulties,  if  she  had  them  in 
her  possession  ?  So,  in  the  end,  it  amounts  to  the  same 
thing  as  if  no  such  settlement  had  been  made." 

"  You  are  a  '  w^omen's  rights'  woman  in  no  sense  of  the 


DEALINGS  WITH   A   MAX   OF  BUSINESS.  183 

word,  Edith,"  said  Mr,  Dubois,  patting  her  in  a  pleased 
way  on  the  shoulder.  "  Well,  you're  none  the  worse  for 
that ;  but  when  do  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Bryson  ?  The 
carriage  is  at  your  service  for  any  hour;  but  you're  not 
rested  yet ;  wait  till  to-morrows" 

"  The  sooner  the  better,  I  think,"  replied  Edith.  "  Sus- 
pense is  a  trying  thing.     Yes  ;  I'll  go  to-day." 

Jacqueline's  Italian  lesson  was  over,  and  she  came  danc- 
ing into  the  breakfast-room,  with  two  or  three  notes  tri- 
umphantly displayed  in  her  hand. 

"  Mr.  Dawson  is  to  be  here  at  one  o'clock,"  she  ex- 
claimed, "  with  his   elegant   turn-out,  and   we'll    have   a 

magnificent  sleigh-ride  of  it  along  the  S .      The  river 

is  filled  with  skaters,  and  it  will  be  so  gay  !  And  here  are 
two  separate   requests  for  permission  to   be  my  attendant 

civalier   at    L 's    concert    to-morrow    night.     Ah  I 

Edith,  what  it  is  to  be  a  belle  I" 

Edith  went  with  her  up-stairs,  with  the  intention  of 
writing  home  before  she  would  go  out ;  but  Jacqueline 
compelled  her  to  go  to  her  chamber,  and  help  her  to  pass 
judgment  on  some  articles  awaiting  her  decision.  In  the 
first  place,  a  box  of  laces  had  been  sent  for  her  inspection 

from   E 's,  and  the  man  had  not  taken  his  departure 

with  them  before  another  from  L 's  made  his  appear- 
ance with  a  case  of  rich  silks  that  had  been  ordered  for 
her  to  look  at.  So  her  maid  must  close  all  the  inside 
shutters,  and  light  the  gas,  that  Jacqueline  might  try  its 


184  SILVEEWOOD. 

effect  upon  blue  moire  antique^  or  glace  coleur  de  rose, 
while  she  stepped  back  and  forth  before  the  cheval-glass, 
gatheriag  gracefully  about  her  the  folds  of  the  heavy  silk. 
The  knotty  point  of  choice  was  settled  at  length — the  shut- 
ters thrown  open  again,  and  Edith  about  to  leave  the  room, 
when  she  was  detained  farther,  by  Jacqueline's  producing 
a  bracelet  for  her  inspection.  Unloosening  her  sleeve,  she 
clasped  it  upon  her  own  fair,  round  arm.  "  Isn't  this  set- 
ting of  rubies  exquisite  ?"  she  asked,  holding  it  in  various 
positions,  so  as  to  concentrate  the  crimsoned  light.  "  Now 
a  particularly  good  friend  of  mine  sent  me  this  'toy,'  as 
he  called  it,  two  days  ago,  and  I've  returned  not  a  word 
of  thanks  yet,  for  lack  of  the  most  appropriate  way  to  con- 
vey them.  I've  tried  my  hand  at  some  verses,  but  they 
don't  please  me.  Edith,  don't  you  write  vers  de  societe, 
sometimes  ?" 

*  ''  Why,  I  believe  everybody  does,  now-a-days,"  replied 
Edith;  "and  not  to  be  singular,  I  fall  in,  occasionally, 
with  the  fashion." 

"  Well,  write  a  few  to  my  order — kind,  and  even  a 
little,  very  little  tender.  You  understand — ^just  the  me- 
rest soupgon — nothing  more." 

"  But  it  is  now  eleven,  you  see,"  said  Edith,  pointing 
to  the  French  clock  that  ticked  on  the  mantel. 

'•  Time  enough  to  dress,  and  do  that,  too,  before  lunch." 

"  But  I  must  write  home — and  I  go  out  at  two." 

"  Where,  pray  ?" 


DEALINGS  WITH  A   MAX   OF    BUSIXESS.  185 

*'  Oil  the  business  that  brous^ht  me  here—" 

''  You  attend  to  business  !"  interrupted  Jacqueline,  in- 
credulously. "  Why  don't  you  ask  papa  or  G-iovanni  to 
do  it  for  you  ?" 

"  Xobody  can  do  it  but  myself." 

"  Bless  me  !  can't  you  tell  them  what  you  want  done? 
and  as  to  your  letter — -that's  soon  dispatched.  Come,  now ; 
for  once  do  as  I  wish.  Here,  Jane,  draw  up  that  table  to 
the  q-rate  and  unlocic  mv  desk." 

There  was  no  escape  from  her  importunities,  and  Edith 
was  obliged  to  comply,  or  seem  stubborn ;  and  so,  while 
Jacqueline  was  being  dressed,  she  threw  off  some  lines,  with 
the  advantage  of  a  running  accompaniment  of  talk  from 
her  companion,  by  way  of   concentrative  to  her  thoughts. 

"Read  them  aloud,"  bade  Jacqueline,  as  Edith  passed 
the  paper  over  to  her.  "I'm  busy,  you  see,  having  my 
hair  curled." 

Edith  complied,  thoudi  her  qood-nature  was  a  little 
stirred. 


TO 


Your  golden  circlet  clasps  my  arm, 
And  'midst  the  gems  so  rare, 
lie  light  is  trembling  with  the  charm 
That  holds  it  prisoner  there. 

•  Touched  with  the  glowing  ruby  gleams, 
Cloud-pillowed  it  will  lie, 

8* 


186  SILVERWOOD. 

And  breathe  its  heart  in  tell-tale  dreams 
Upon  the  evening  sky. 

*'  But  purer  links  than  these, — inwove 

With  yet  a  subtler  art, — 
Set  with  that  burning  jewel,  love, 

Are  clasped  above  my  heart. 

"  Thought  lingers, — kindUng  at  the  glance, 
And  though  it  owns  no  thrall. 

There  gathers  o'er  my  eye's  expanse, 
A  haze  that  tells  you  all  !" 


"  Too  ardent,  entirely  !"  exclaimed  Jacqueline.  '^  Why, 
that's  a  downright  confession.  Couldn't  you  do  it  up  in  a 
little  cooler  way  ?" 

"  Well,  since  you  don't  like  either  the  setting  or  the 
cutting  of  the  stone,"  said  Edith,  rising,  "be  the  lapidary 
yourself;  or,  Cleopatra-fashion,  melt  it  down,  to  suit  your 
taste,  in  some  critical  vinegar." 

But  Jacqueline  always  had  her  way ;  and  by  the  time 
the  revisions  she  suggested  were  made,  the  sleigh  (a  fairy 
enough  vehicle  to  have  served  Amphitrite  as  a  shallop) 
was  at  the  door,  driven  by  a  servant  in  half-livery,  and 
drawn  by  mettlesome  horses,  whose  strings  of  bells  kept 
time  to  their  impatient  hoofs.  Mr.  Dawson  came  in  to 
lunch ;  and,  after  it  was  over,  Edith  watched  from  the 
window,  as  Jacqueline  took   her  seat  in  the  sleigh, — her 


DEALINGS  WITH  A  MAX  OF  BUSINESS.  187 

plumes  flying,  lier  wavy  curls  floating  in  the  wind,  eyes 
and  cheeks  brilliant,  and  lips  brimming  with  merriment,— 
wondering,  the  while,  that  under  so  captivating  an  exte- 
rior should  lurk,  like  a  serpent  amid  the  flowers,  the 
spirit  of  vanity  and  selfishness.  "  Yet  I  might  have  been 
just  like  her,"  was  her  thought,  as  she  turned  from  the 
window,  *'  but  for  the  precious  guide  Grod  has  given  me. 
Poor  thing  !  she  never  knew  what  it  was  to  have  a  mo- 
ther I"  The  sleigh  was  scarcely  out  of  sight,  before  the 
carriage  was  at  the  door,  and  Edith  was  soon  in  it,  and 
on  her  way  to  the  accomplishment  of  her  unenviable 
errand. 

To  a  temperament  like  her's — frank,  self-possessed,  cor- 
dial, where  she  felt  herself  loved  and  appreciated ;  but 
the  very  reverse — withdrawn,  timid  and  restrained,  where 
she  did  not  know  her  ground,  or  among  strangers — the 
meeting  with  Mr.  Bryson  was  most  trying ;  and  her  heart 
throbbed  quicker  as  the  carriage  stopped  before  an  aristo- 
cratic mansion  of  brown-stone.  "  This  the  home  of  a 
bankrupt  I"  thought  Edith,  as  she  looked  up  to  the  richly 
moulded  window  cornices,  the  carved  door-w^ay,  almost 
wide  enough  to  let  in  a  carriage-and-four ;  the  sweep  of 
massive  steps  ;  the  stone  balustrades  of  the  balcony — and 
she  turned,  for  an  instant,  to  her  own  home  far  away,  by 
force  of  contrast,  and  remembered  that,  but  for  the  mis- 
management,— it  might  be  the  dishonesty  of  the  dweller 
here, — a  comfortable  competence,  at  least,  might  have  been 


188  •  SILVERWOOD. 

tlieir  portion,  nnder  that  humbler  roof,  instead  of  the  positive 
apprehension  of  poverty.  With  a  feeling  of  relief  she 
could  not  hide  from  herself,  she  heard  the  servant,  who 
admitted  her,  say,  that  Mr.  Bryson  was  not  in.  Finding 
at  what  hour  he  dined,  without  leaving  card  or  name,  she 
entered  the  carriage  again,  and  drove  to  see  an  old  friend 
of  her  mother,  and  w^hiled  away  the  time  in  listening  to 
reminiscences  such  as  the  aged  delight  to  indulge  in. 

"  Will  you  please  send  in  your  name,  madam,'-  added 
the  servant,  after  a  hesitating  affirmative  to  Edith's  in- 
quiry, as  to  whether  Mr.  Bryson  had  returned.  To  do 
this,  would  be,  in  all  probability,  to  subject  herself  to  a 
denial ;  so  she  simply  stepped  into  the  hall,  with  a  request 
to  see  him.  But  In  his  present  circumstances,  Mr.  Bry- 
son was  chary  of  seeing  strangers ;  so  the  servant  returned 
wath  an  answer,  that  he  was  particularly  engaged.  A 
boy  of  some  eight  or  ten  years  came  bounding  out  of  one 
of  the  j^doors  into  the  hall — "Why,  papa  is  only  reading 
the  papers  in  the  back  parlor,"  he  said,  by  w^ay  of  correc- 
tion. ''Why  don't  you  ask  the  lady  in,  Robert?"  and, 
wdthout  farther  ceremony,  the  child  flung  wide  the  door, 
and  ushered  Edith  in.  She  looked  round  upon  the  costly 
furniture  of  the  apartment — the  rich  lace-lined  curtains — 
the  embroidery  of  the  divans  and  fauteuih — the  mirrors 
— the  pictures — the  articles  of  vertu — in  short,  everything 
that  met  her  eye,  bespoke  the  most  lavish  expenditure. 
She  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  a  magnificent  quarto 


DEALINGS  VflTH  A   :JAX   OF   BUSIXESS.  189 

volume  of  French  engravings  that  lay  on  a  vercl  antique 
sofa-table  near  her,  when  a  step,  almost  smothered  by  the 
heavy  pile  of  the  carpet,  made  her  look  up. 

"  Ah !  am  I  to  believe  my  eyes  ?"  exclaimied  Mr.  Bry- 
son,  approaching  v>dth  inquisitive  glance,  and  extended 
hand — "  Miss  Edith  Irvine,  as  I  live  I  Pardon  me,"  he 
added,  drawing  an  ottoman  in  front  of  her,  and  speaking 
in  his  courtly  way.  "  Could  I,  for  an  instant,  have  antici- 
pated such  a  pleasure  as  this,  it  would  have  been  the  far- 
thest from  my  thoughts,  in  the  world,  to  have  allowed 
any  but  the  most  imperative  business  to  prevent  my  see- 
ing you.  I'm  glad  my  little  son  took  it  upon  himself  to 
be  your  gentleman-usher,  as  the  servant  produced  the 
impression  that  it  was  only  a  common  caller.  And  now, 
how  is  your  good  mother,  and  your  brother  ?  Business — 
business.  Miss  Edith,  is  an  unrelenting  master — leaves 
no  time  for  the  keeping  fresh  old  friendships.  But  I'm 
impatient  to  hear  of  you  all." 

Edith  satisfied  his  rapid  and  minute  inquiries,  half 
reproaching  herself  as  she  did  so,  for  her  harsh  thoughts 
towards  hirn,  for  he  seemed  really  kind,  and  there  was 
no  evidence  of  chagrin  at  her  sudden  appearance  ;  but, 
on  the  contrary,  a  degree  even  of  empresseinent  in  all  his 
manner. 

"  Grone  to  Havana,  indeed  ?  "Well,  I'm  relieved  to  hear 
that.  We  may  hope  for  his  more  speedy  restoration,  than 
if  he  had  remained  in  Virginia.     His  life  is  so  precious  to 


190  SILVERWOOD. 

you  all,"  and  Mr.  Bryson  paused,  sympathetically,  for 
Edith  had  averted  her  eyes;  "but  you  have  reason  to 
hope  for  the  best."  And  then  followed  a  most  minute 
account  of  the  experience  of  a  brother-in-law  of  his  wife, 
who,  after  spending  a  winter  on  a  sugar-plantation  in 
Jamaica,  had  come  home  well.  There  was  not  the  slight- 
est pause,  on  the  part  of  the  voluble  talker ;  and,  without 
an  interruption  that  would  have  seemed  rude,  Edith  could 
find  no  means  of  giving  the  conversation  any  turn  in  the 
direction  she  wished.  Endless  were  the  questions  about 
their  new  home  ;  pressed,  too,  with  such  an  air  of  interest, 
that  she  felt  ashamed  to  distrust  the  motive ;  but  she  had 
wound  herself  up  to  the  point,  and  was  not  to  be  circum- 
vented by  the  lapwing-like  trick.  So,  summoning  her 
resolution,  she  broke  in  with  the  sudden  inquiry  : 

"  Are  you  not  surprised,  somewhat,  to  see  me  here,  in 
,  under  present  circumstances,  Mr.  Bryson  ?" 

"  Ah!  yes,"  he  replied,  quickly.  "  I  was  on  the  point  of 
saying,  that  our  sweetest  birds  fly  south,  instead  of  north, 
at  this  season ;  but  I  felt  some  delicacy  in  making  any 
allusion  that  might  trench  upon  private  affairs  of  your 
own.  It  is  suspicious,  when  young  ladies  fly  off  in  a  tan- 
gent in  this  way — shopping  expeditions — trousseaux — 
bridals  in  the  prospective  ;  eh,  Miss  Edith  ?  And  by  the 
way,  1  have  not  asked  you  whether  the  young  gentleman 

who  came  up  with  your  mother,  on  her  visit  to ,  just 

before  she  went  south,  Mr.  Woodruff,  I  mean — whether  he 
has   accompanied  you." 


DEALINGS  WITH  A   MAN   OF  BUSINESS.  191 

Mr.  Bryson  tent  for  a  moment  towards  Edith,  and 
saw  the  slis^ht  flush  that  bri^fhtened  on  her  cheek. 

''  Ah, — so, — "  he  went  on  in  his  fidgetty,  mercurial  way, 
yet,  as  if  he  had  discovered  something  that  gave  him  relief. 
"Really,  I  must  send  for  Mrs.  Bryson,  and  let  her  try 
if  her  efforts  can't  prevail  on  you  to  dine  with  us  ;  and 
now  just  say  at  what  hotel  Mr.  Woodruff  puts  up,  and  I'll 
dispatch  a  servant  for  him — " 

"  Mr.  Woodruff  is  not  with  me  at  all,"  interrupted 
Edith,  half  provoked.  "  Allay  all  such  suspicions,  as 
your  words  seem  to  intimate.     I  came  on  business." 

"  Ah  !  indeed  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bryson,  quite  incredu- 
lously, and  stepping  to  the  door,  as  if  to  anticipate  the 
servant  who  was  coming  to  answer  his  ring,  he  called  to  him 
to  tell  Mrs.  Bryson  he  wished  her  to  come  down,  and 
bring  Miss  Evererts  with  her  ;  then,  as  if  recollecting  some 
further  order,  he  begged  Edith's  indulgence  for  a  moment, 
and  left  the  room.  He  soon  returned,  however,  ushering 
in  the  lady  in  question,  and  his  wife,  a  woman  of  mascu- 
line proportions,  in  whose  shadow  three  such  men  as 
himself  might  have  been  concealed.  Mrs.  Bryson  was  for- 
mally and  condescendingly  polite  to  Edith,  and  very  faintly 
echoed  her  husband's  invitation  that  she  would  consider 
herself  their  guest  for  dinner,  which,  of  course,  M^as 
declined.  Miss  Evererts  out-chatted  Mr.  Brvson  even,  and 
had  endless  inquiries  to  make  about  people  in  Virginia, 
of   whom   Edith  had  never  heard,   and  whose  existence 


192  SILYEEWOOD. 

she  was  disposed,  in  her  disappointment,  to  think  a  proba- 
ble myth.  It  was  utterly  in  vain  to  say  a  word  about  the 
object  of  her  visit,  under  the  circumstances,  so  she  rose  to 
depart,  intending  to  ask  Mr.  Bryson,  pointedly,  as  soon  as 
they  were  out  of  hearing  of  the  ladies,  to  allow  her  an  in- 
terview at  some  other  time.  On  turning  to  do  so  in  the 
hall,  what  was  her  surprise  to  find  a  servant  only  behind 
her,  ready  to  hand  her  out.  The  gentleman  had  bowed  his 
adieu  within,  and  the  drawing-room  door  was  closed.  Had 
her  pride  been  less  wounded  to  find  herself  thus  shuffled 
off,  she  would  probably  have  demanded  still  to  see  him ; 
as  it  was,  she  threw  herself  into  the  carriage,  disposed,  wo- 
man-like, to  cry  with  vexation  and  chagrin. 

Tea  was  over  before  Edith  could  fmd  leisure  for  the 
letter   she   had   promised    her    mother  should   be   written 

immediately     on     her    arrival    at ,    and    she   was 

leaving  the  parlor,  to  fulfill  the  promise, _when  Jacqueline 
detained  her. 

"  I'm  sadly  puzzled  over  this  smoking-cap.  I've  got  the 
pattern  all  wrong,  you  see,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  right 
it.  You  have  a  knack  at  these  things,  Edith.  I  want  you 
to  help  me  out  of  the  difficulty." 

Edith  supposed  a  minute  or  so  might  remedy  the  mis- 
take, as  she  looked  at  the  piece  of  velvet  Jacqueline  flung 
towards  her. 

"  It's  a  senseless  bother,  anyhow,"  exclaimed  the  ami- 
able young  lady.     "  If  it  weren't  that  Theodore  Grates  will 


DEALINGS  WITH  A  MAN  OF  BUSINESS.  193 

prize  a  Christmas-present  made  by  my  hands,  a  thousand 
times  more  than  any  I  could  buy,  I  wouldn't  trouble  my- 
self to  take  another  stitch.  Be  thankful,  Edith,  that  you 
have  no  such  penalty  to  pay  for  popularity." 

^'  I  am, — thankful  that  I'm  not  a  slave  dragged  at  Fash- 
ion's merciless  chariot  wheels,"  replied  Edith,  spiritedly, 
while  a  bright  spot  came  into  her  cheek. 

"  Oh  !  I  claim  to  be  one  of  the  favored  ones  who  sit  in 
her  triumphal  car,"  said  Jacqueline,  satisfiedly  ;  "  but  it's 
the  gold  threads  that  are  wrong,  too.     Pray,   rip  them." 

"  Oh  !  never  mind  that  everlasting  letter,"  she  persisted, 
in  reply  to  some  words  of  Edith.  "  No  news  are  always 
good  news  ;  so  help  me,  for  I  have  this  cap,  and  a  purse, 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  more  things  that  I  must  have 
finished  before  Christmas." 

As  she  spoke,  a  couple  of  gentlemen  were  announced, 
and  she  eagerly  absorbed  them  both,  after  a  hurried  pre- 
sentation of  them  to  Edith,  who  still  sat  with  the  embroid- 
ery in  her  hand. 

To  have  left  the  room  just  then  would  have  seemed  too 
cognizant  of  being  overlooked  ;  so  Edith  sat  quietly  work- 
ing, and  listening  to  the  conversation  made  up  of  local  al- 
lusions and  references  to  people  of  whom  she  knew  noth- 
ing. Thinking,  at  length,  that  she  had  been  in  durance 
long  enough,  she  turned  quietly  to  Jacqueline  : 

"  The  mistake  is  rectified,  I  believe ;  so  you  will  excuse 


194  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Let  me  see,"  and  Jacqueline  held  out  her  begemmed 
hand  for  the  velvet.  "  Why,  yes  ;  it  looks  very  nice.  Just, 
pray,  do  a  little  more,  you  do  it  so  prettily.  Come,  now  ; 
don't  be  disobliging,"  she  said,  coaxingly,  as  Edith  rose 
to  go,  ''  you  know  there's  no  hurry  at  all  for  that  letter, 
and  there  is  for  this." 

''  I  apprehend  Miss  Irvine  is  the  best  judge  in  regard  to 
the  letter,"  interposed  one  of  the  gentlemen,  as  he  left 
Jacqueline's  side,  and  approached  Edith,  with  an  evident 
wish  to  enter  into  conversation  with  her ;  "  but  if  the 
letter  can  be  postponed,  I  vote  for  its  being  done." 

"  Oh,  w^ell,  if  you  are  so  bent  upon  it,  I  suppose  you'll 
have  to  go,"  said  Jacqueline,  quickly.  "  You  may  as  well 
take  the  embroidery  with  you,  and  if  you  don't  feel  like 
joining  us  after  your  letter  is  written,  you'll  surprise  me, 
I  know,  by  having  some  of  those  leaves  finished." 

Take  from  woman  what  you  will — beauty,  wit, 
genius,  every  accomplishment  and  grace,  but  leave  her, 
above  all  things — leave  her  tenderness — tenderness  of 
look,  and  tone,  and  thought,  and  then  will  there  be  about 
her  an  angel-light,  an  inner  loveliness,  before  which  all 
these  exterior  charms — if  they  hide  a  cold  and  selfish 
nature — will  seem  only  as  the  golden  casket  that  held 
concealed  the  death's  head  ! 


XYIII. 


Sigljts  ill  a  Ca%kal. 


Several  tempestuous  days  kept  Edith  quite  housed,  and 
entirely  interfered  with  the  immediate  prosecution  of  the 
business  she  had  in  hand  ;  but  a  packet  of  home-letters 
proved  something  of  a  salvo  to  her  in  her  disappointment. 

'•  I  don't  know  how  to  be  grateful  enough,"  wrote  her 
mother,  "  for  the  tender  care  with  which  (as  you  will 
see  from  the  portions  of  their  letters  I  enclose)  Providence 
has  watched  over  our  wanderers.  Surely,  '  goodness  and 
mercy  have  followed  me  all  the  days  of  my  life  !'  Surely,  I 
can  say:  'Hitherto  hath  the  Lord  helped  me.'  And  now, 
after  all  these  details  which  I  have  been  giving  you  of 
Lawrence's  improved  health,  and  Zilpha's  hopeful  anticipa- 
tions— of  the  comfortable  way  we  have  managed  to  get  on 
here  without  you,  vvhile  trying  not  to  miss  you  too  much, 
will  you  ever  again,  dear  child,  let  yourself  doubt  that  for 
every  emergency,  for  every  trial,  for  every  duty,  the  '  Lord 
vnll  provide  V      He  has   given  us  proof  upon  proof  of  the 


196  SILVEEWOOD. 

truth  of  His  declaration  in  our  own  experience ;  so,  then, 
let  us  trust  Him  on  even  unto  the  end." 

''You  cannot  imagine,"  ran  another  paragraph,  "how 
disposed  I  was,  after  you  were  fairly  off,  to  regret  that  I 
had  not  gone  to myself,  for  I  am  afraid  the  busi- 
ness may  be  trying  to  you.  But  I  did  what,  under  the 
circumstances,  seemed  best  at  the  time.  You  know  my 
idea  of  duty  is,  to  get  all  the  light  we  can  upon  the  matter 
in  question, — to  ask  directions  from  above,  and  then  act  ac- 
cording to  the  best  of  our  judgment,  leaving  the  issue  in 
the  divine  hand.  This  I  endeavored  to  do,  and  so  am  de- 
termined not  to  let  any  regrets  trouble  me.  Your  dear 
father's  counsel,  which  he  used  to  be  fond  of  repeating,  of- 
ten comes  up  to  me, — '  never  grieve  over  what  can  be 
helped,  but  help  it ;  and  never  grieve  over  what  cannot, 
since  it  will  avail  nothing.'  So,  if  you  are  successful  in 
your  errand,  we  will  be  very  thankful ;  if  not,  we  will 
try  and  believe  that  Grod  would  have  it  so,  and  rest  con- 
tent." 

There  were  pages  upon  pages  of  tissue-like  paper,  cov- 
ered with  the  journal-letters  of  Lawrence  and  Zilpha, — 
every  line  full  of  interest  for  Edith,  to  whom  no  details 
were  too  minute  touching  those  so  well  beloved.  There 
were  descriptions  of  ocean  in  its  various  moods  ;  there 
were  clear,  vivid  sketches  from  Lawrence's  hand,  of  some 
of  their  fellow  voyagers,  marked  by  the  quiet,  playful  hu- 
mor   peculiar   to    him — little  incidents   on   -ship-board — 


SIGHTS   IN   A    CATHEDRAL.  197 

tlie  first  impressions  of  a  foreign  shore — the  gallant  ''Ha- 
baneros,"  and  the  indolent  life  in  their  "  hermosissima 
isla'^ — such  and  kindred  themes  filled  their  pages. 

"  I  could  not  help  thinking  how  Sepha  would  have 
clapped  her  hands  at  sight  of  the  odd,  gay  carriages  that 
crowd  the  streets  every  evening,  filled  w^ith  black-eyed  and 
black-haired  senoritas^  with  no  bonnets  on  their  heads, 
but  wreaths  of  flowers  instead,  looking  like  so  many  May- 
queens.  There  is  nothing  that  may  be  called  winter  here, 
you  know,  so  that  flowers  and  foliage  are  in  luxuriant 
abundance,  though  it  is  almost  December.  The  plumes  of 
the  palm-trees,  the  rows  of  pomegranates,  the  aloe-enclosed 
fields  of  pine-apples,  the  cofiee  plantations,  and  scores  of  oth- 
er things,  make  us  feel  as  if  we  were  much  farther  away 
than  we  really  are,  from  our  own  familiar  land.  Just  think 
of  it,  Eunice — you  who  are  nursing  so  carefully  the  scarlet 
cactus  you  brought  all  the  way  from  B ;  think  oi  hedg- 
es formed  of  the  most  splendid  varieties  !  But  if  they  have 
flowers  and  fruits  and  winterless  weather  here,  I  assure  you 
they  are  wanting  in  a  thousand  matters  more  essential  to 
one's  comfort.  Imagine  our  great  fortress-like  hotel,  with 
its  grated  windows,  innocent  of  a  single  pane  of  glass,  doors 
like  a  barn,  marble  flgors,  and  uninviting  beds.  Oriental 
luxury  will  be  sure  to  be  associated  in  your  mind,  -Edith, 
with  tesselated  pavements ;  but  a  bright  carpet  is  a 
good  deal  more  to  my  liking,  and  mother  dear  will  hardly 
be  able  to  take  in  the  barest  idea  of  comfort  within  th 


198  SILYERWOOD. 

shadow  of  Christmas,  without  a  glowing  fire.  For  the 
peace  of  Sepha's  mind,  let  me  inform  her  that  insects  are 
another  component  ot  the  atmosphere  here  ;  at  all  events, 
I  am  sure  of  having  breathed  them,  and  am  of  opinion  that 
it  would  have  been  well  to  have  accepted  her  suggestion 
of  a  strainer  for  my  drinks.  But  such  an  aid,  such  a  com- 
fort as  Zilpha  is  to  me  !  She  interposes  between  me  and 
these  Spanish  servants,  and  has  dishes  prepared  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  the  home  fashion  for  me  ;  she  screens  my  win- 
dow at  night  with  one  of  her  great  shawls  ;  she  makes  me 
pleasant  draughts  ;  she  cheers  me  when  I  am  depressed — 
gives  me  sunshine  for  my  spirit — strength  for  my  heart, 
when  it  is  weak  and  weary  ;  and  with  her  sweet,  calm 
words  of  hope  and  trust,  helps  to  fix  my  soul  more  firmly 
in  the  persuasion  of  God's  unalterable  love.  Ah  !  hew  I 
thank  you  all  for  the  self-denial  that  made  you  willing  to 
give  her  up,  and  how  my  whole  nature  thrills  with  a 
tenderness  towards  her,  which  language  is  too  poor  to 
speak  I" 

*'  We  strayed  out  for  a  walk  this  morning," — (this  page 
was  in  Zilpha's  hand  writing,) — "  having  in  view  a  sort  of 
pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of  Columbus,  who,  you  know,  is 
buried  in  the  Cathedral  here.  I  will  not  describe  the 
interior  of  this  building,  as  I  have  a  sketch  of  it  made  for 
'  you  all's  '  satisfaction,  as  Uncle  Felix  Avould  say.  I  am 
not  apt  to  become  enthused  very  much  over  anything,  but 
must  own  to  a  strange  flutter  of  emotion  as  I  stood  before 


SIGHTS   IX   A   CATHEDEAL.  199 

the  urn  that  held  the  dust  of  one  of  the  noblest,  most 
self-sacrificing  beings  God  ever  made  !  Do  you  remember, 
Edith,  how  we  were  moved  to  tears  when  reading  of  his 
being  taken  home  to  Spain  in  chains  ?  and  of  his  ship- 
wreck among  these  very  islaads,  when  '  castled  in  the 
sea,'  he  so  heroically  fought  off  despair,  through  all  that 
most  disastrous  year  of  his  life  ?  I  recalled  the  time 
most  vividly,  and  thought  how  little  idea  I  then  had, 
when  pouring  over  the  book  with  a  child's  delight,  under 
the  vine-covered  porch  at  B  — — ,  of  standing  before  the 
tomb  of  the  old  hero.  The  great  incidents  of  his  life 
passed  in  momentary  review  before  me — his  disappoint- 
ments— his  sufferings — his  trials — his  triumphs;  the 
plaudits  of  a  kingdom  following  him — royally  attended, 
yet  bending  the  knee  with  chivalric  reverence  before  his 
queen— -his  Christian  death — his  name  that  fills  the  world. 
Lawrence's  heart  vras  as  full  as  mine,  but  he  did  not  say 
much.  You  know  it  is  not  his  way  to  talk  when  deeply 
moved.     But  we  saw  somethinor  that  touched  us  far  more 

o 

than  this,  in  the  Cathedral,  and  I  am  half  afraid  that  if  I 
confess  all  I  felt,  you  will  begin  to  tremble  for  my  Prot- 
estantism, and  to  fancy  I  had  better  be  getting  away  from 
this  Popish  country. 

"  AYe  had  lingered  till  most  of  the  devotees — for  it 
were  a  sin  to  call  them  worshippers — were  gone  :  only 
here  and  there  a  scnora  on  her  bit  of  carpet,  with  the 
black  page  v/ho  had  carried  itj  kneeling  behind  her.     Wliat 


200  SILVERTTOOD. 

interested  us  so  strongly,  was  a  little  side  cliapel,  filled  by 
a  picture  of  Christ  on  the  cross, — the  moment,  that  in 
which  he  utters  '  it  is  finished,'  bows  his  head,  and  gives 
up  the  ghost.  I  have  tried  a  thousand  times  to  realize 
the  fearful  scene — the  anguish  of  the  Redeemer's  human 
soul,  with  all  its  perfect  and  exquisite  sensibilities,  sus- 
tained by  its  union  with  the  divine,  and  strengthened  to 
bear  in  one  terrific  Avhole, — and  in  those  few  hours  of 
unutterable  agony,  what,  when  broken  into  portions,  and 
parceled  out  to  lost  angels,  requires  an  eternity  ;  but  nev- 
er till  this  morning  did  I  seem  to  have  approached  the  con- 
ception, even  of  the  bodily  suffering  ;  of  the  mental,  of 
course,  finite  mind  can  take  in  no  thought.  The  most  per- 
fect unity  pervaded  the  picture,  and  although  it  seems  pre- 
sumptuous in  the  highest  degree,  to  attempt  to  portray 
what  must  ever  be  beyond  the  power  of  human  pencil, 
there  was  nothing  here  to  wound  my  Protestant  feelings — 
nothing  to  divert  the  mind  from  the  one  thought.  There 
were  no  sorrowful  disciples  and  weeping  women — no 
bringing  of  mere  human  grief  into  competition  with  the  in- 
conceivable agony  of  the  God-man,  as  if  the  same  gauge 
might  be  used  to  measure  the  anguish  of  the  earthly  and 
the  divine  !  In  the  centre  of  the  picture  stood  only  the 
cross  against  a  back-ground  of  clouds,  dark,  heavy,  thun- 
derous, with  a  wild  glare  of  lightning  concentrating 
itself  upon  the  upturned  face  of  the  iSaviour.  Those 
words  of  more  fearful  pathos  than  were  ever  uttered  in 


SIGHTS   IN   A   CATHEDRAL.  201 

God's  universe,  seemed  just  to  have  quivered  on  the  death- 
ly-pale lips,  and  succeeding  to  them,  the  thought  that  satis- 
fied even  Christ's  mighty  travail  of  soul — '•  it  is  finished  I" 
The  torture  of  the  man,  and  the  triumph  of  the  Grod  were 
blended  in  mysterious  union  on  the  heavenly  face,  which, 
even  in  the  ghastliness  of  death,  wore  an  expression  of  the 
most  unearthly  and  marvellous  beauty.  The  pierced  hands, 
on  which  the  whole  weight  of  the  suspended  body  hung, 
the  stretched  and  starting '  tendons,  the  bloodless  arms  and 
strained  sockets,  the  upheaved  chest,  the  quivering  feet, 
purple  with  the  settled  gore — these  might  have  formed  a 
combination  from  which  one  would  shrink  in  fear.  But 
that  was  not  the  effect.  The  bodily  suffering  seemed  a 
subordinate  idea.  I  was  irresistibly  drawn  forward,  and 
longed  to  lay  my  cheek  against  that  cross,  and  clasp  those 
bleeding  feet.  I  thought  of  the  sin  for  which  such  an 
atonement  alone  was  adequate,  and  remembered  with  a 
streaming  eye,  that  mine  could  be  expiated  at  a  cost  no 
less  tremendous. 

"  In  my  absorption,  I  had  wholly  forgotten  where  I  was, 
and  was  only  recalled  by  a  chance  sight  of  Lawrence. 
He  was  kneeling  on  the  step,  and  leaning  over  the  rail- 
ing, just  as  I  had  seen  the  deluded  creatures  do,  a  little 
while  before.  But  there  was  a  strange  radiance  on  his 
face,  as  if  he  had  caught  something  of  the  reflected  glory 
of  the  one  on  which  he  looked  ;  and  liis  expression,  at  all 
times,  so  refined  and  lofty,  had  in  it  a  reverent  joy.     His 

9 


202  SILVERWOOD. 

hands  were  clasped,  and  I  caught  some  of  his  Avhispered 
words — '  It  is  finished.  Thou  has  hegun,  continued, 
completed  it  all  I  I  can  add  nothing.  "Where  were  the 
need?  It  is  finished  P  I  feared  to  hreak  his  ecstatic 
reverie.  I  did  not ;  hut,  after  a  while,  he  turned  to  me 
with  a  low  voice — '  Zilpha,  do  you  feel  as  if  you  could 
go  into  yon  street  again,  after  having  heen  so  close  to 
Calvary  ? ' 

"  I  have  dwelt  too  long  on  this  description,  for  I  am 
sure  I  have  failed  to  convey  any  just  idea  of  the  picture 
to  your  minds ;  but  I  did  it,  principally,  that  I  might  show 
you  how  dangerous  is  the  appeal  the  Romish  Church 
makes  to  the  senses  of  its  votaries ;  for  the  poor  Papist 
stops  at  the  canvas :  we,  I  trust,  went  beyond  it — " 

"  Thank  God !"  inwardly  ejaculated  Edith,  as  she 
folded  up  the  last  sheet,  "  for  the  blessed  affections  of 
home !" 

Yes,  thank  Grod  for  them — for  the  unworldly  love — the 
tenderness  nowhere  else  to  be  found  on  all  this  broad, 
green  earth — the  unflagging  devotion — the  beautiful  one- 
ness of  interest — the  perfect,  unquestioning  trust !  What  is 
all  the  happiness  that  genius,  or  wealth,  or  fame,  or  honor 
can  bestow,  when  brought  into  comparison  with  the  pure 
heart-refreshment,  and  heart-satisfaction  of  home  I  It  is 
the  one  spot,  fresh  with  cool,  unfailing  waters,  and  bright, 
as  with  the  atmosphere  of  heaven,  to  which  memory  goes 
back   most   achingly,   most   longingly,  as  we   travel   on 


SIGHTS  IN  A  CATHEDEAL.  203 

through,  life,  beneath  skies  that  smite  our  heads,  and 
sands  that  scorch  our  feet,  weary  and  athirst  for  the 
draughts  which  the  world's  muddy  pools,  impure  with  the 
green  slime  of  envy,  and  distrust,  and  unkindness,  and 
hate,  can  never  give.  Yes ;  G-od  be  praised  for  the  blessed 
affections  of  home ! 


XIX. 


Sfiiuptljits. 


It  was  the  Sabbath  morning,  clear,  cold,  and  sparkling, 
and  as  they  lingered  over  the  late  breakfast,  Edith  asked 
the  hour  for  the  commencement  of  church  services. 

"Not  going  to  church  to-day,  Edith?"  demanded 
Jacqueline.  "  Why,  what  grievous  sin  have  you  com- 
mitted, that  you  are  going  to  condemn  yourself  to  the 
penance  of  trying  to  keep  your  balance  on  pavements 
that  are  slippery  as  glass  ?  It's  too  cold  to  go,  besides  ; 
and  I've  got  a  new  novel.  You  needn't  look  so  grave  ;  it's 
a  sort  of  religious  one,  and  if  you  will  stay  at  home  and 
read  it  aloud  to  me,  you  may  do  me  more  good  than  you 
would  do  yourself  by  going  to  church." 

"  But,  Jacqueline,"  said  Edith,  gravely,  ''  have  you  no 
hesitation  in  setting  at  nought  God's  direct  commands — 
'  forsake  not  the  assembling  of  yourselves  together,'  and, 
'  remember  the  Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy  V  " 


206  SILVERWOOD. 

"  But  I  do  go  to  church  generally  once  a  day,  at  least ; 
and,  pray,  where's  the  harm  in  reading  a  religious 
novel  ?" 

"  Grod  claims  the  entire  day  as  His.  We  can't  purchase 
indulgences  for  lightly  spent  Sabbath  evenings,  by  the 
most  scrupulous  attention  to  the  morning  and  afternoon 
service — that  is  the  Rominst's  idea,  and  you,  Jacqueline, 
ought  to  scout  that,  with  Huguenot  blood  in  your  veins. 
And  as  to  the  novels, — is  it  for  the  religion  in  them  that 
you  read  them  ?" 

"  Why,  no  ;  not  exactly.  Indeed,  to  tell  the  truth,  I 
often  skip  the  prosy  sermons  in  them,  if  I  can  do  it  with- 
out loosing  any  of  the  story." 

"  Then  amusement  is  your  only  aim.  Oh  I  Jacque- 
line !" 

"  Well,  pray,  how  would  you  have  me  spend  the  day  so 
that  it  should  not  be  stupid  ?  I'm  not  religious,  and  it 
would  be  the  merest  hypocrisy  for  me  to  sit  with  a  Bible 
in  my  hand,  pretending  to  be  devout.  Even  when  I  do 
go  to  church,  my  thoughts  treat  themselves  to  a  pleasure 
excursion  round  the  pews  ;  and  by  the  time  I  have  studied 
the  cut  of  the  most  fashionable  cloaks,  and  the  price  of 
the  furs,  and  the  probable  value  of  the  Honiton  and  Mech- 
len  collars,  and  a  few  more  things  of  that  un- Christian  sort, 
the  sermon  is  about  up.  Now,  I  would  like  to  know  if 
staying  at  home,  and  reading  a  good  novel,  is  any  worse 
than  that." 


SYMPATHIES.  207 

''  Yes  ;  thongli  the  account  you  give  of  yourself  is  bad 
enough,  but  by  staying  at  home,  you  disobey  a  positive 
command,  and  put  yourself  out  of  the  way  of  being  reached 
by  the  gospel.  You  say  truly  enough  that  you  are  not 
relisrious  :  but  whose  fault  is  that  ?" 

"  Bless  me  !    are  you  going  to  take  me  for  a  text?     I 

might    as  well  go    and  hear    Dr.   Gr sermonize.       I 

wouldn't  be  likely  to  find  him  so  personal." 

"  No,  I  will  spare  you  ;  but,  pray,  let  me  ask  who  it  is 
you  want  to  bless  you  ?  Some  unseen  person,  I  suppose, 
who  has  the  power  to  grant  your  wish." 

*' Mercy  on  me!  how  puritanical,  Edith!  You  think 
it's  wrong,  do  you?  Why,  I  don't  mean  anybody  in 
particular." 

''  Yet  you  just  called  on  some  one  to  have  mercy  on 
you.     Were  you  in  earnest  ?" 

''  Grood  gracious!  what  would  you  have  me  say?" 

"  Not  tliat^  certainly.  Now  look  for  a  moment  at  your 
three  consecutive  expressions—'  bless  me,'  '  mercy  on 
me,'  and  good  gracious' — a  mere  mincing  of  '  G-od  be 
gracious.'  Of  course,  these  are  all  appeals  to  the  Divine 
Being." 

''  Why,  I  never  think  of  such  a  thing  !" 

"  Neither  does  the  man  who  habitually  uses  the  name 
of  G-od,  by  way  of  giving  emphasis  to  his  assertions." 

"  What  must  I  say,  then  ?  for  I  must  have  an  explo- 
sive of  some  kind." 


208  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Let  your  yea  be  yea,  and  your  nay,  nay." 

*' Ah!  you  are  'unco  good,'  as  Janet,  our  vScotch  cook 
says.  I'll  get  on  bravely,  if  I  have  nothing  worse  than 
this  to  answer  for  ;  and  I  must  have  something  to  effer- 
vesce upon,  when  my  brother  teazes  me." 

"  Teazes  ?  /  supposed  the  teazing  w^as  on  the  other 
side.  Don't  you  remember,  last  night,  you  told  him  it 
was  your  determination  to  persist  in  calling  him  'Gio- 
vanni,' just  because  it  vexed  him?" 

**  And  I  ivill^  too — he  professes  to  have  such  a  scorn  of 
affectation.  I  shall  interlard  my  conversation  with  quota- 
tions from  Alfieri,  or  Metastasio,  you  may  rely  on  it,  as 
soon  as  I  get  to  reading  them." 

'*  You  find  Jacqueline  a  giddy  thing,  Edith,"  said  Mr. 
Dubois,  who  had  re-entered  the  breakfast-room  while  they 
were  talking,  "  a  giddy  thing,"  and  he  kissed  her  fair  fore- 
head as  he  spoke,  "  but  she'll  settle  down  into  something 
sober  after  a  while,  I  hope,  and  become  good,  as  her  mo- 
ther was." 

Yes  ;  let  the  wild  weeds  of  youthful  folly  fill  the  garden 
of  this  young  heart ;  let  them  grow  up  rankly ;  let  them 
mature,  turning  up  their  bright  but  pernicious  blossoms  to 
the  world's  sunshine  ;  let  their  seeds  ripen  and  drop  into 
the  virgin  soil.  These  seeds  will  undergo  a  change  in 
time — how^  is  not  just  clear;  but  some  metamorphose  will 
take  place.  They  will  put  forth  vigorous,  wholesome 
shoots,  which  will  spring  up  in  richness  and   beauty — be 


SYMPATHIES.  209 

clotlied  with  fragrant  flowers,  which  shall  give  way  to 
fruits  fit  for  the  srarner  of  Grod  ! 

Mr.  Dubois  forgot  that  cause  and  effect  are  as  inevitably 
linked  together  in  the  spiritual  as  the  natural  world — that 
he  might  as  truly  have  expected  the  purple  clusters  of 
grapes  on  the  wall  of  his  conservatory  to  have  been  pro- 
duced from  the  carelessly  dropped  seeds  of  the  hellebore  ! 

"  Red  eyes,  I  aver  I"  exclaimed  Dr.  Dubois,  as  they  sat 
round  the  dinner- table,  waiting  for  Jacqueline,  who  had 
just  entered.  ''  Whose  fictitious  woes  have  drawn  upon 
your  compassions  so  deeply,  my  weeping  Niobe  ?" 

"  No  teazing,  if  you  please,  Giovanni.  You  would  cry, 
yourself,  over  such  a  story." 

"  /  cry  over  a  novel !  I  see  rather  too  much  in  real  life 
to  move  my  sensibilities,  to  waste  a  scant  tear  over  fancy 
griefs.  It's  my  belief  that  whenever  benevolent  impulses 
are  roused,  or  sympathetic  tears  started,  which  are  not  fol- 
lowed up  by  correspondent  action,  there  is  more  injury 
sustained  by  the  sensibilities  thus  moved,  than  if  they  had 
remained  unimpressed.     Wliat  think  you^  Miss  Edith  ?" 

"  As  you  do.  These  stirred  emotions,  like  the  waters  of 
a  suddenly  swollen  stream,  ought  to  fertilize  the  meadows 
around  them,  by  their  overflow ;  but,  if  the  waters  are 
dammed  up^  they  may  do  more  harm,  fretting  against 
their  own  banks,  and  drowning  their  verdure,  than  if  the 
stream  had  not  been  augmented  at  all." 

"  Your  illustration  don't  hold  good  in  all  points,  Edith," 

9* 


210  SILVER  WOOD. 

said  Mr.  Dubois.  ''  Legitimately  aroused  sensibilities, 
even  when  'dammed  up,'  and  doing  no  good  to  others,  can 
hardly  be   said  to  injure   the  nature   stirred  by  them." 

*'  Now,  there,  sir,"  replied  Dr.  Dubois,  "  is  the  best  point 
in  the  simile,  I  contend.  The  oftener  our  sensibilities  are 
called  forth,  and  then  thrown  back  upon  themselves,  with- 
out expending  their  force  in  the  action  to  which  they 
impel,  the  more  blunted  they  become.  If  it  were  not 
so,  wholesale  devourers  of  novels  would  be  the  class  of 
people  the  most  easily  moved  by  real  distress ;  but  they 
are  not — " 

"  A  side  stroke  for  me,  I  suppose,"  interrupted  Jacque- 
line, "because  I  wouldn't  lay  down  my  book  the  other 
day,  to  listen  to  some  beggar's  story.  Such  cheats  as 
they  all  are  !  It  is  enough  to  ^harden  any  one's  heart 
against  them." 

"  Cheats,  no  doubt,  there  are  in  abundance  among  them. 
I  remember  having  my  compassions  greatly  moved  by  be- 
ing beset  in  the  streets  of  Paris  one  day  by  a  miserable 
woman  with  a  dead  infant  which  she  said  she  had  not  the 
means  of  burying.  I  confess  to  feeling  the  hardening  pro- 
cess when  I  discovered,  a  iey^  days  after,  that  the  child 
was  a  ivax  one  !  But  because  there  is  counterfeit  coin 
abroad,  we  must  not  refuse  to  take  any.  I  believe,"  he 
said,  addressing  himself  to  Edith  again,  "  the  secret  of  the 
fact  that  physicians  don't  grow  indifferent  to  suffering  of 
which   they  see  so  much,  and  are  the  least  hard-hearted. 


SYMPATHIES.  211 

perhaps,  of  any  given  class  of  men,  is  because  their  sym- 
pathies are  no  sooner  appealed  to,  than  they  tend  to  their 
rightful  end — to  afford  relief.  But  for  this  nice  provision 
of  nature,  they  might  become  as  obtuse  as  a  fashionable 
novel-reader." 

"  Bless  me  I  what  self-complacency  !"  exclaimed  Jac- 
queline. "  Edith,  I  suggest  that  we  leave  him  to  peel  his 
orange  by  himself.  As  I  am  too  incorrigible  for  any  relief 
he  can  give  me,  I  had  better  take  myself  away,  for  fear 
the  sight  of  such  obtuseness  might  injure  the  purple  bloom 
of  his  over-ripe  compassions." 

That  same  evening,  as  Edith  sat  before  the  library  fire, 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  volume  she  had  taken  down, 
Dr.  Dubois  joined  her. 

"  I  had  serious  thoughts,"  he  said,  "  of  asking  you  to  do 
a  deed  of  mercy  this  afternoon ;  but  Jacqueline  put  her  veto 
upon  it,  and  I  was  fain  to  give  up  my  idea." 

"  I  am  so  sorry  !"  and  Edith  looked  with  a  sort  of  re- 
proachful inquiry  towards  Jacqueline,  who,  with  her  book 
on  her  lap,  sat  on  the  leopard-skin  mat  near  her. 

"  Sorry !     Is  that  all  the  gratitude  you  have,  when  I 

saved  you   from  a   horrid,  sloppy  walk   away  to  D 

street,  when  G-iovanni  had  some  poor  miserable  girl  to 
look  after?"  asked  Jacqueline.  "  You'd  have  had  to  hold 
your  vinaigrette  to  your  nose,  I  promise  you  ;  and  I  dare 
say  she  lived  up  five  pairs  of  rickety  stairs — your  interest- 
ing sick  people  always  do.     So  in  kindness  to  you,  I  told 


212  SILVERWOOD. 

John  you  had  taken  some  cold  by  going  to  church  in  the 
morning ;  and,  besides,  I  had  been  alone  all  day,  and 
wanted  you  with  me." 

"  But,  why  didn't  you  ask  me  about  it?  I  should 
have  considered  it  a  privilege,  doctor,  to  have  gone  with 
you,  if  I  could  have  done  any  good.  Well,"  continued 
Edith,  shutting  up  her  book,  while  Jacqueline  went  on 
with  hers,  and  so  failed  to  see  the  vexed  expression  with 
which  her  brother  regarded  her,  "you  will  let  me  go  to- 
morrow, or  the  next  time  you  visit  your  patient  ?" 

Dr.  Dubois  acquiesced  with  an  expression  of  warm 
thanks ;  and,  after  interesting  Edith  with  some  details 
about  the  poor,  young  creature  he  had  been  visiting,  he 
went  on,  after  a  pause — 

"  You  Christians  talk  about  God's  providence  ;  but 
how  can  you  reconcile  the  facts  with  which  the  world 
abounds  ?  Now,  there's  that  dying  girl — patient,  thank- 
ful, unmurmuring,  lying  alone,  without  earthly  comforts, 
as  utterly  forsaken  of  man,  and  of  God,  too,  one  would 
think,  but  from  her  assertion  to  me  to-day  to  the  contrary, 
as  if  she  were  the  most  ungrateful  wretch  alive  ;  while 
your  sick  sinner,  who  defies  human  and  divine  law,  is 
bolstered  u])  with  every  appliance  that  money  can  provide — 
yet  he  rail>  and  frets.  I've  just  such  patients  at  this 
moment.  Now,  where's  your  just  Providence  all  this 
time  ?" 

"  I  am  sure,  to  go  no  further  than  mere  stoical  philoso- 
phy will  take  yon,  doctor,  you  will  grant  that  that  mind 


SYMPATHIES.  213 

has  attained  to  the  most  rational  point,  which  can  be  the 
most  independent  of  external  circumstances.  You  remem- 
ber Milton's  lines — 

"  '  rie  that  hath  light  within  his  own  clear  breast — '  " 

The  doctor  took  them  from  Edith's  lips  as  she  paused, 
and  repeated  the  fine  paragraph  to  the  end. 

"  Well,"  continued  Edith,  "  we  claim  infinitely  more 
for  Christianity  than  your  philosophy  can  teach.  Would 
you  not  this  moment  take  the  heavenly  peace,  and  hope, 
and  resignation,  Vvdiich  you  have  been  telling  me  is  so  re- 
markable in  the  case  of  this  poor  girl,  with  all  the  sur- 
roundings of  discomfort  and  poverty,  which  touch  not  the 
soul,  rather  than  your  rich  patient's  luxury,  with  its 
accompaniment  of  disquiet,  or  perhaps  anguish,  of  which 
you  may  see  but  the  surface  ?" 

"  Still,  you  are  not  answering  my  question.  Vfhj  does 
Providence  thus  deal  with  those  who  live  so  as  to  please 
him  best  ?  Why  stint  and  treat  them  so  harshly,  if  he 
has  the  workl  at  his  command,  for  their  necessities,  and 
lavish  luxuries  on  those  who  scorn  him  ?  Surely,  there  is 
no  bribe  held  out  to  induce  people  to   become  Christians." 

"  This  is  part  of  the  discipline,  by  means  of  which  they 
come  to  be  '  put  among  the  children.'  Trial  may  have 
been — must  have  been  needed,  to  bring  this  sick  girl  to 
hor  present  submissive  state.  It  is  hardly  wrong  to  exalt 
suffering  to  the  utmost — to  call  it  divine,  if  it  works  oat 
the  result  which  He  who  sends  it,  intends  thnt  it  should." 


214  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Yon  surely  don't  think  there  is  anything  meritorious 
in  mere  sufFerinof?" 

"  By  no  means.  So  much  do  I  object  to  the  Popish 
idea  of  it,  that  I  would  not  have  that  expression — '  perfect 
through  suffering' — used  as  it  often  is  used  now-a-days, 
without  a  special  limit  of  it  to  the  results  of  the  thing, 
not  the  thing  itself;  and  is  there  not  some  such  law  as 
this,  underlying  all  the  order  of  nature  ?  The  ore  must  be 
passed  through  the  furnace,  before  we  have  the  gold ;  the 
rough  stone  must  be  filed,  before  we  see  the  sparkle  of  the 
gem  ;  the  gums  must  be  bruised,  or  they  will  not  give  out 
their  precious  odor ;  the  roses  must  be  crushed,  that  we 
may  have  the  fragrant  oil ;  the  soil  must  be  torn  up 
by  the  plow-share,  before  there  can  be  any  harvest ; 
and  through  such  a  process  must  the  soul  receive  its 
strensfth." 

''  You  would  malvc  endurance,  divine — the  Prometheus 
on  the  rock  ;  but  that  does  not  relieve  my  difficulty. 
Pain  can  by  no  manner  of  means  be  esteemed  a  good,  un- 
less the  end  aimed  at,  is  to  be  attained  in  no  other  way. 
To  say  that  Grod  can  purify  His  creatures,  and  fit  them 
for  their  work  here,  or  their  reward  hereafter,  by  no  other 
process,  is  to  limit  His  power." 

"  We  don't  say  that ;  but  we  do  say  that  it  is  a  plan 
He  often  sees  proper  to  adopt ;  and  if  infinite  wisdom  ap- 
prove it,  does  it  become  us  to  demand  the  'wherefore  ?' 
'  Even  so,  Father  !  for  so  it  seemeth  good  in  Thy  sight  I'  " 


I 


XX 


Clje  Mm  of  %  mioii^. 

''  Mrs.  Bryson  is  just  going  out,"  was  the  message 
with  which  Edith  was  met,  as  she  stood  upon  the 
merchant's  stately  threshold,  the  next  day.  But  through 
the  inner  door  of  the  hall,  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
nodding  plume,  as  the  lady  had  passed  into  one  of  the 
drawing-rooms  ;  so  she  requested  the  servant  to  show  her 
in — a  thing  he  seemed  extremely  reluctant  to  do.  Some- 
thing very  like  a  blush  mantled  her  face,  as  she  thought 
of  forcing  herself  thus  upon  Mrs.  Bryson,  who  did  not 
advance  to  meet  her,  but  stood  coolly  drawing  on  her 
gloves,  as  if  she  failed  to  recognise  her. 

''Ah!  Miss  Irvine,  is  it?"  she  said,  as  Edith  ex- 
tended her  hand.  "You  are  wanting  to  see  Mr.  Bryson, 
I  suppose.  He  is  so  absorbed  in  business,  I  scarcely  get 
a  sight  of  him  myself,  except  at  the  dinner-table." 

"  My  business  can  as  well  be  transacted  with  yourself, 
madam,"  replied   Edith,   subsiding  into  a  seat;   for  she 


216  SILVERWOOD. 

quivered  a  little  under  the  hard  scrutiny  of  the  cold  eye 
upon  her. 

"  Business  !  I  am  so  intent  upon  my  own  this 
morning,  that  I  positively  must  refuse  to  undertake 
any  one  else's." 

She  did  not  take  a  seat,  and  it  was  evident  that  she 
expected  Edith  to  understand  her  words  as  a  hint  to 
go ;  hut  the  thought  of  the  little  circle  at  Silverwood — 
the  rememhrance  of  the  mother  there,  whose  heart  was 
following  her  with  prayerful  hope — the  beloved  ones 
in  that  far-away  island,  whose  comfort  might  be  so 
greatly  involved  in  her  present  action,  swept  with 
strengthening  influence  through  her  mind,  and  she  grew 
strong  again. 

With  a  gentle  manner,  yet  firm  as  it  was  calm,  she 
stated  the  object  of  her  visit  to  the  city — the  embar- 
rassments of  her  mother — the  present  helpless  condition 
of  the  family,  during  the  absence  of  her  brother  in  ill 
health — the  urgency  there  was,  in  consequence,  for  the 
withdrawal  of  the  sum  of  money  which  had  been  placed 
in  Mr.  Bryson's  hands  some  months  before. 

"  And  pray,  why  could  not  your  mother  have  written 
to  my  husband.  It  was  strange  for  you  to  put  yourself 
to  this  trouble  and  expense  for  a  matter  of  business 
that  might  have  been  better  arranged  by  letter." 

"  Madam,"  said  Edith,  looking  up  in  her  face,  with 
a  clear,   steady  eye,  "  I   will  be  candid,   for  I  can  stoop 


THE   WAY   OF  THE   WOELD.  217 

to  no  equivocation.  You  may  suppose  the  news  of 
Mr,  Bryson's  embarrassments  would  naturally  reach  us 
through  the  letters  of  friends.  Our  absolute  necessities 
made  my  mother  unwilling  to  run  the  risk  of  a  letter's 
delay ;  and  she  hoped,  besides,  that  a  personal  applica- 
tion to  your  husband,  would  meet  with  more  immediate 
attention." 

''  Why  am  I  troubled  then  ?" 

"  I  have  sought  Mr.  BiTson,  and  have  been  twice 
disappointed  in  seeing  him." 

"  He  is  at  his  counting-house.  T  can  give  you  the 
number.     "What  should  /  know  of  his  business  affairs  ?" 

''  You  have  no  knowledge,  then,  of  this  claim  my 
mother  makes  ?" 

««  \Ih.j,  it  is  absurd  to  suppose  that  I  can  know  any- 
thing of  the  business  details  of  a  house  that  reckons 
its  transactions  by  hundreds  of  thousands.  This  much 
I  do  know,"  she  added,  haughtily,  "  that  like  an 
eagle  with  a  broken  wing,  my  husband  has  been  pounced 
upon  by  vultures  of  creditors,  who  worry  his  life  out 
with  their  pertinacious  demands.  I  make  no  doubt  but 
that  you  know  the  extent  of  his  disability,  and  are 
aware  that  he  has  given  up  everything.  I  hope  that 
satisfies  them." 

''All?"  responded  Edith.  "If  he  has  done  that, 
more  cannot  be  demanded  of  him." 

'*  Yes ;    all,    exeept   what   is    necessary   to   put   bread 


218  SILVERWOOD. 

into  his  children's  mouths.  A  man  can't  be  expected 
to  be  kinder  to  other  people,  than  to  his  own  family. 
Thank  fortune !  there's  something  I  hold  in  my  own 
right,   that  may  keep  us  from  starving." 

Edith  looked  round  on  the  elegant  appointment  of 
the  apartment  in  which  she  sat,  and  an  incredulous 
half-smile  passed  over  her  face,  as  she  repeated  to  her- 
self Mrs.  Bryson's  last  word.  It  did  not  escape  that 
lady's  notice. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  bitterly,  ''  you  have  made 
all  haste  to  put  in  your  claim  with  the  other  creditors." 

"  Not  yet.  As  my  mother  Avas  involved  in  no  business 
matter  with  Mr.  Bryson,  other  than  that  he  had  power 
of  attorney  to  dispose  of  property  and  invest  the  money 
for  her,  she  thinks  he  will  not  be  content  to  let  her 
lose  so  large  a  portion  of  it  as  she  would,  by  taking 
her  chance  with  the  rest." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  other  chance  she  looks 
to.  I'm  sorry  she  has  been  inconvenienced ;  but  w^hat's 
that  mere  pittance  to  the  sweep  we  have  endured  ?" 

"  It  is  very  much  to  us ;  it  is  nearly  our  all." 

"  Well,  even  if  it  were,  you  have  not  the  mortification 
of  stepping  down  from  such  a  position  as  I  must  give 
up.  You  could  teach,  or  sew,  or  do  something  of  that 
sort ;  but  for  7ne — " 

"  The  provision  Mr.  Bryson  has  taken  care  to  make  for 
you,  madam,  will  always  set  you  above  that  necessity,  at 


THE  WAY  OF  THE   WOELD.  219 

least,"  said  Edith,  her  eye  flashing  in  spite  of  herself  as 
she  spoke. 

"  I  hope  so,  indeed,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Bryson ;  ''but  I'm 
in  no  mood  to  bear  what  may  look  like  a  tamit.  G-lad 
am  I  that  my  husband  has  been  considerate  enough  as  to 
settle  a  small  portion  of  his  fortune  upon  me.  Would 
you  be  so  cruel  as  to  snatch  that  away  ?" 

"  No ;  only  to  ask  out  of  it  '  the  pittance'  of  which 
you  just  spoke.  I  beseech  you,  madam,"  and  Edith  rose 
and  stood  before  Mrs.  Bryson,  with  a  face  pale  from 
^motion  ;  ''I  beg  you  to  listen  to  me.  You  do  not — you 
cannot  deny  this  just  claim.  You  have  it  in  your  power 
to  restore  it.  Legally,  I  know,  we  can  compel  nothing 
from  you ;  but  you  are  a  woman — you  have  a  mother's 
heart — you  will  not  see  my  widowed  mother,  with  none 
to  stand  between  her  and  the  unpitying  world,  driven 
out  in  the  afternoon  of  her  life,  to  earn  her  bread — you 
will  not  recall  my  sick  brother,  and  take  from  him  his 
last  chance  of  life,  perhaps,  and  condemn  us,  fatherless, 
brotherless,  penniless — to  struggle  with  want  and  sor- 
row. No  !  I  will  not  believe  this  of  you.  I  luill  hope 
that  your  own  trials,  which  must  be  hard  to  bear,  have 
given  you  a  fellow-feeling  for  those  who  suffer  still 
more." 

"  I  assume  no  such  responsibility  as  driving  your 
mother  from  her  home,  or  bringing  your  brother  to  the 
grave,  or  making  you  beggars,"   said   Mrs.   Bryson,   re- 


220  SILVERWOOD. 

treating  indignantly  a  few  steps.  "  Saddle  me  with  no 
such  gratuitous  burdens.  I've  enough  of  my  own  to  bear, 
in  all  conscience.  No,  indeed  !  That  would  be  a  pitch  of 
benevolence  I  don't  aim  at,  to  throw  the  morsel  from  my 
children,  even  to  keep  Mrs.  Irvine's  from  starving.  '  Self- 
preservation  is  Nature's  first  law.'  Expect  me  to  drown, 
that  I  may  give  you  my  plank  !  I'm  not  quite  so 
romantically  philanthropic  as  that." 

"  I  did  not  ask  your  plank — only  our  oivn  little  splin- 
ter." 

"  You  would  take  from  me  enousfh  to  leave  me 
swamped.  No  ;  I  tell  you  once  for  all,"  said  Mrs.  Bry- 
son,  with  an  emphatic  gesture  of  the  hand  that  held  a 
handkerchief  exquisite  enough  in  its  frost-like  embroidery 
fo  have  cost  the  eyes  that  wrought  at  it,  their  sight,  and 
a  knitting  of  the  brow  that  was  a  damper  to  every  hope 
of  Edith's;  "you  needn't  think  to  play  upon  my  woman's 
nature  in  this  way.  I  understand,  now,  why  you  come 
to  me  instead  of  my  husband.  Heaven  knows  I've  been 
persecuted  beyond  endurance  with  dress-makers'  and  shop- 
keepers' bills.  These  paltry  kind  of  people  have  no  feeling 
whatever — they  would  sting  me  at  every  point.  But  you 
will  let  me  go  now — I  have  been  detained  from  an  imper- 
ative item  of  business,  already." 

"  Just  one  word  more,"  said  Edith,  speaking  with  a 
marked   emphasis   of  manner,  and   a   keen,  dilating  eye. 

"  Mrs.  Bryson,  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven,  who  calls  him- 


THE   WAY  OF  THE   WORLD.  221 

self  the  'Judge  of  the  fatherless' — who  declares  that  who- 
ever does  violence  to  the  orphan,  shall  feel  his  justice. 
'AVe  are  fatherless — our  mother  a  widov/.'  Keep  our 
rightful  means,  if  you  will ;  let  them  help  to  surround 
you  with  ease  while  you  live  ;  let  them  do  their  part  to 
keep  away  the  want  that  may  goad  us  ;  but  rest  assured 
of  this — an  hour  will  come — it  ivill  come,  if  not  in  health, 
in  the  time  of  dreary  sickness,  or  fearful  death — when  you 
will  be  compelled  to  meet  again  the  decision  of  this  mo- 
ment. No;  hear  me  out,"  she  continued,  as  Mrs.  Bryson 
made  an  attempt  to  interrupt  her  ;  "  you  must  meet  this 
deliberate  determination  to  'oppress  the  widow  and  the  fa- 
therless,' for  yoit  know,  and  I  know,  that  you  have  the 
power  to  relieve  us  without  injury  to  yourself — you  must 
m^eet  it  before  the  eye  of  infinite  justice.  Enjoy,  then, 
madam,  to  the  utmost — the  richness  and  the  glitter  of  this 
princely  home  ;"  and  she  swept  her  hand  round  the  costly- 
decorated  room  ; — let  your  damasks  and  tapestries  muffle 
the  sound  of  the  sobs  it  costs  others  for  you  to  retain 
them ;  let  your  chandeliers  sparkle  so  that  your  dazzled 
eyes  may  not  see  the  character  of  the  thing  you  have  done. 
You  will  learn  that  in  the  inevitable  blaze  of  eternity  !" 
Edith  w-alked  w^ith  a  lofty  step  from  her  presence  ;  and 
it  was  not  till  she  found  herself  again  in  the  carriage,  that 
her  old  tremor  returned,  the  overstrained  nerves  relaxed,  and 
the  tears  she  could  not  keep  back,  gathered  blindingly 
over  her  sight. 


222  SILVERWOOD. 

''  It  is  useless,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  to  go  to  Mr.  Bry- 
son.  jifter  this  inexorable  woman,  what  better  can  I  hope 
for  from  him  ?  But  then  I  might  reflect  on  myself  for 
havino^  left  somethinsf  untried.  Mother — Lawrence — Zil- 
pha  !  Yes,  I  could  walk  through  fire  and  water  for  your 
sweet  sakes  !     I  will  go." 

In   one   of  the   busiest   parts    of  street,   facing 

wharves  strewn  with  bales  and  boxes,  amid  the  haunts  of 
shipping  merchants,  where  the  sight  of  a  lady  was  enough 
to  elicit  a  stare,  Edith  alighted — having  been  furnished 
by  Mr.  Dubois  with  the  number  of  Mr.  Bryson's  house. 
She  entered  a  vast  room,  whose  contents  were  being  in- 
voiced by  several  clerks,  and  was  nearly  overthrown  by 
the  jostling  against  her  of  draymen,  who  were  removing 
barrels  and  bales  under  the  direction  of  other  employees  of 
the  establishment.  With  one  accord,  they  all  paused  in 
their  work,  as  Edith's  slight  figure  passed  up  the  room. 
Timidly  she  looked  round,  not  knowing  to  whom  to 
address  herself. 

"  What's  your  business,  ma'am  ?"  inquired  a  pert  young 
knight  of  the  quill,  looking  up  from  his  ledger.  *'  A  queer 
place  this  for  a  woman." 

""  Hush  I  Jacobs  !"  interposed  another.  ''  Don't  you  see 
she's  a  lady  ?"  « 

''  Wharves  are  not  the  places  for  parlor  manners,  or  for 
ladies  either,"  replied  the  other.  ''  Who  are  you  looking 
for,  Miss  ?" 


THE  WAY   OF  THE   WORLD.  223 

Edith  scorned  any  aid  from  that  source,  and  continued 
to  advance  to  the  head  of  the  long  room,  and  for  the  mo- 
ment, she  owned  to  herself  that  she  would  rather  forfeit 
the  sum  she  was  in  search  of,  than  run  the  gauntlet  thus. 
A  quiet,  elderly  man  saw  her  embarrassment,  and  came 
forward. 

*'  What  is  it  ?"  he  asked.     "  Can  I  be  of  any  service, 


ma' am  : 


?" 


"  Yes,  sir ;   by  conducting  me  to  Mr.  Bryson." 
"  We  have  our  orders,  ma'am,  not  to  admit  visitors." 
"  I'm  not  a  visitor ;  I  come  on  business." 
"  He  might  be  displeased,  ma'am  ;  he  is  very  busy." 
"  I'll  bear  the  consequences  of  his  displeasure.    It  can't 
hurt  you^  I  suppose." 

"  He's  hurt  me  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  already — - 
three  months'  salary  in  arrears.  I'm  in  the  employ 
of  the  creditors  now  ;  but  I  don't  care  to  seem  to  beard 
him.  He's  down,  you  know,  and  one  hates  to  trample 
on  a  fallen  man ;  but,  if  you're  bent  on  it,  ma'am,  I  sup- 
pose I  may  as  well  show  yon  ; — this  way,  if  you  please." 
Edith  followed  to  an  upper  story ;  and  before  she  could 
know  where  she  was,  the  clerk  had  opened  the  door,  ush- 
ered her  in,  and  was  gone. 

Desks  and  high  stools,  with  clerks  seated  on  them  here 
and  there,  day-books  and  ledgers,  were  all  that  met  her 
view ;  nothing  but  the  turning  of  leaves,  and  the  monoto- 
nous scratch,  scratch  of  pens  met  her  ear.     She  ran  her 


224  SILVERWOOD. 

eye  up  the  apartment,  and  at  length  descried  the  object 
of  her  search  in  a  recess,  busied  over  papers,  and  wholly 
unconscious  of  her  presence,  until  she  stood  before  him  and 
uttered  his  name.     He  raised  his  gold  spectacles. 

"  Am  I  to  believe  my  eyes  ?  Miss  Irvine  !  why  how 
could  you  have  found  your  way  here  ?  The  first  time,,  I 
venture,  these  walls  were  ever  honored  by  the  presence 
of  one  of  your  gentle  sex.  Johnson,  bring  this  lady  a  seat. 
Sorry  I've  no  better  accommodations  than  a  hard  chair. 
Can  scarcely  ask  you  to  sit  down  either,  Miss  Edith. 
This  unfortunate  juncture  in  my  business  affairs,  of  which, 
I  can't  flatter  myself,  you  have  not  heard,  leaves  me  nei- 
ther time  for  eating  or  sleeping,  I  may  say.  A  hard  lot, 
when  I've  been  toiling  so  sedulously,  for  years,  to  win  a 
competence  for  my  family,  to  see  it  swept  away  by  the 
unavoidable  mischances  of  trade ;  but  I  don't  complain. 
Miss  Edith.  I  know  who  orders  all  things,  and  try  to 
submit  to  his  will  ;"  and  Mr.  Bryson  bowed  his  head  rev- 
erently over  his  desk,  as  if  indeed  he  were  saying,  "  thine 
be  done." 

"  Yes,"  said  Edith,  waiving  away  the  boy  who  was 
bringing  her  the  seat,  and  dashing  in  medias  res,  at  once 
— "  yes,  Mr.  Bryson,  it  is  hard  to  lose  our  means  of  living, 
ivholly,  and  just  because  it  is,  am  I  here  to-day." 

She  then  went  on  clearly  to  state  her  business,  and  her 
family's  necessities — her  mother's  unwillingness  to  have 
her  money,  which  he  had  held,  classed  with  the  claims 


THE  WAY   OF  THE  WORLD.  225 

of  the  other  creditors,  and  finished  by  an  appeal  to  him  to 
press  upon  his  wife  the  payment  of  it  out  of  the  settle- 
ment he  had  made  upon  her — her  undoubted  knowledge 
of  which  she  gave  him  to  understand. 

"  I  am  told  that  a  large  portion  of  this  sum  is  invested 
in stocks.  Now,"  continued  Edith,  not  allow- 
ing herself  to  be  silenced  by  Mr.  Bryson's  repeated  at- 
tempts to  talk  her  down,  "  like  a  man  who  prefers  a 
stainless  reputation,  to  all  the  wealth  these  lines  of  store- 
houses, and  of  shipping,  cover — who  faces  poverty,  if  need 
be,  rather  than  abate  one  jot  of  his  high  honor,  just  prom- 
ise me  that  you  will  try  and  induce  Mrs.  Bryson  to  make 
a  transfer  of  the  amount  in stocks,  to  my  mo- 
ther, which,  if  she  loves  your  honor  as  a  wife  should,  she 
will  not  refuse  to  do." 

*'  You  are  wonderfully  well  posted  up  in  regard  to  my 
affairs.  Miss  Edith.  The  truth  is,  I  have  managed  to 
scrape  together  a  sufficiency  to  keep  my  family  above 
want,  for  the  present,  till  I  can  get  my  affairs  into  a  pro- 
per train  again.  As  to  denying  the  full  amount  of  your 
mother's  claim,  I  feel  insulted  at  the  bare  suggestion. 
Indeed,  I  have  been  so  aggrieved  at  the  issue  of  things, 
as  to  shrink,  unwarrantably,  from  giving  her  the  pain  the 
communication  of  my  disasters  must  necessarily  occasion. 
That^  you  may  well  understand,  kept  me  from  broaching 
the  subject  to  you,  a  few  days  since,  when  you  did  me 
the  kindness  to  call  on  me.     But  time,  Miss  Edith,  only 

10 


226  SILVERWOOD. 

time  is  wanting.  I  will  rise  yet,  like  a  Phenix,  from  the 
ashes  of  my  downfall,  and  will  be  able  to  pay  your  mo- 
ther principal  and  interest,  even  to  the  compomid.  Rest 
assured  of  that,  and  don't  lacerate  me  by  any  allusion  to 
want  on  your  part." 

"  Unless  you  can,  at  once,  put  us  into  possession  of  at 
least  part  of  the  money,  I  tell  you,  we  ivill  be  in  need. 
My  brother  must  have  remittances." 

Mr.  Bryson  covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  as  if  to  shut 
out  so  hideous  a  spectre,  and  remained  silent.  Edith 
went  on. 

*'  I  called  upon  Mrs.  Bryson  this  morning,  and  though 
my  representations  affected  nothing,  I  am  perfectly  per- 
suaded that  you  can  induce  her  to  regard  this  debt  as 
of  too  special  a  character  to  be  classed  with  your  others. 
Now,  by  your  honor  as  a  gentleman — by  your  desire  for 
the  character  of  probity  among  the  great  merchants  of 
your  city — by  the  memory  of  my  father's  early  friendship 
for  you — by  your  sense  of  justice  as  a  man,  and  by  your 
hope  as  a  debtor  before  God,  I  ask  you  to  win  your  wife 
to  a  compliance  with  my  demand.  "WTiat  ought  money 
to  be  to  her  in  comparison  with  your  good  name  ?  Here 
is  my  mother's  letter  to  you,  in  which  she  deputes  me  to 
act  as  her  proxy." 

She  laid  the  letter  on  the  desk.  Mr.  Bryson  read  it 
without  a  word  of  reply  ;   then  folded  it  slowly  up. 

"  You  are  hurried,  no  doubt,"  continued  Edith,  "  and 


THE   WAY   OF   THE   WORLD.  227 

greatly  annoyed,  and  I  don't  wish,  to  intrude  farther  upon 
you.  Here  is  pen  and  paper  :  sign  me  a  written  pledge 
that  you  will  get  Mrs.  Bryson's  consent  to  the  adjustment 
I  desire ;  for,  if  it  is  your  wish  to  settle  the  matter  thus, 
she  will  surely  comply." 

"  Suppose  every  other  creditor  should  make  a  similar 
demand,  how  long  would  my  wife  and  children  be  out  of 
the  alms-house  ?  But,  I  really  am  earnestly  desirous  to 
do  what  I  can  for  you.  Let  me  see,"  he  mused,  counting 
the  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  ''  in  five  ;  no,  in  seven  days 
hence,  I  may  he  able  to  make  a  disposition  of  matters 
that  shall  satisfy  you.  By  the  way,  where  shall  I  call 
on  you  ?" 

Edith  told  him. 

"Ah!  that  accounts — well,  well,  let  me  hand  you 
down  to  your  carriage.  Dispatch,  dispatch  is  my  watch- 
word now ;  or,  no,"  he  added,  taking  out  his  watch ; 
"  shall  be  compelled  to  sacrifice  my  gallantry  for  once. 
Johnson,  tell  Mr.  Kites  to  show  this  lady  to  her  carriage. 
Grood-morning,  Miss  Edith.  You  have  my  pledge  for 
next  week  :  good-morning ;"  and  Edith  found  herself  on 
the  outside  of  the  door,  to  which  Mr.  Bryson  had  con- 
ducted her,  before  she  could  crowd  in  a  reply. 


I 


XXI. 

Contrasts. 

"  I  HAVE  a  composition  to  write  to-day,  dear  sister  Edith," 
\Yas  the  purport  of  a  letter  received  a  day  or  two  after  this, 
"  and  so  I  have  begged  mother  to  let  me  make  a  letter 
to  you  out  of  it ;  and  as  I  have  not  much  to  say,  it  will 
suit  very  well  ;  for,  I  remember  once,  you  told  me  I  must 
write  what  was  not  worth  saying,  as  well  as  what  was. 
Eunice  has  no  trouble  at  all  with  her  compositions.  She's 
got  her  head  crammed  full  of  those  everlasting  Roman 
stories,  and  so  she  just  writes  one  of  them  off.  I  could  do 
that,  too,  if  I  knew  them  ;  it's  a  mighty  easy  way — a  great 
deal  easier  than  making  them  out  of  a  body's  head,  as  I 
have  to  do. 

"  Me  and  Uncle  Felix  has  fine  times — there  !  Eunice 
made  me  make  that  blot.  She  looked  over  my  shoulder, 
and  said  she  thought  a  singular  verb  would  do  very  well 
for  us  two  ;  for,  taking  us  together,  we  make  a  singular 
pair.     "Well,  me  and    Uncle  Felix  have  (you  see  I  cor- 


230  SILVERWOOD. 

rected  my  grammer  this  time!)  have  elegant  times 
hunting  eggs  now.  We  know  of  twelve  nests  ;  and  Ho- 
mer and  Silvy  each  got  a  good  shaking  from  Uncle  Felix 
the  other  day  for  daring  to  go  before  I  did  to  hunt  the 
nests.  We  have  begun  to  save  up  eggs  for  Christmas,  and 
we  are  going  to  make  a  plumb-cake  in  honor  of  your  com- 
ing home.  At  first,  mother  said  she  thought  you  would 
be  satisfied  with  pound-cake,  and  that  fruit  was  expensive 
here ;  but  I  quietly  got  Uncle  Felix  to  carry  eight 
dozen  of  eggs  to  Milburne,  and  get  currants,  and  raisins, 
and  citron  for  them.  Mother  did  not  know  anything 
about  it.  She  did  not  dream  I  had  saved  such  a  parcel 
of  eggs,  till  Uncle  Felix  brought  in  the  bundles  ;  and  she 
wasn't  a  bit  angry — she  only  laughed,  and  called  me  '  a 
little  Yankee.' 

"  Last  Tuesday  we  all  were  invited  to  dinner  at  Mrs. 
Grant's.  There  was  ever  so  much  company  there,  and 
mother  said  if  she  had  known  how  much  of  a  dinner-party 
it  was  to  be,  she  would  not  have  taken  Eunice  and  me. 
Oh  !  I  must  tell  you  about  my  accident.  Don't  you  think, 
when  one  of  the  servants  was  lifting  the  white  cloth,  and 
another  was  putting  round  the  finger-bowls,  I  gave  his 
hand  such  a  knock  with  my  elbow,  that  the  bowl  went 
spinning  across  the  table  into  Miss  Lettuce's  lap,  spilling 
all  the  water  over  the  red  damask  cloth.  I  was  mightily 
ashamed,  and  made  a  dash  to  save  it ;  but  Miss  Lettuce 
only  laughed,  and    said  something  aibont  four  paivs.     I 


COXTEASTS.  231 

reckon  she  thonght  two  weren't  enough  to  catch  it.  I 
don't  thank  her,  though,  for  calling  my  hands  ^azi^s,  as  if 
I  was  a  cat  I  Eunice  is  bothering  me  again.  She's 
laughing  ready  to  hurt  herself,  and  says  it  was  '  a  French 
phrase  '  Miss  Lettuce  used  ;  but  I  don't  believe  it  was.  I 
heard  her  say  '  fore  paw,'  or  '  four  paws,'  very  plainly. 
I  didn't  enjoy  myself  a  great  deal.  There  were  no  little 
girls  there  ;  and  Eunice  found  a  book,  and  curled  herself 
up  in  a  corner  of  a  sofa,  and  read  all  the  time,  except 
while  we  were  at  dinner.  You  know  how  she  does. 
"  Now  and  Then  "  was  the  name  of  it.  I  whispered  to  her 
that  710W  was  the  time  to  look  about,  and  when  she  went 
home,  then  would  be  the  time  to  read  ;  but  she's  deaf  and 
blind  when  she  gets  a  book  she  likes,  and  never  minded 
me. 

*'Mrs.  G-rantley  was  there,  and  she  told  us  aheap  about 
her  being  in  Europe  ;  and  Miss  Burton  asked  mother  ever 
so  many  questions  about  you  and  brother  Lawrie,  and 
sister,  and  all  how  she  liked  Silverwood.  But  you  ought 
to  have  heard  Miss  Lettuce  teazing  Mr.  Bunbury.  He 
seemed  so  puzzled,  that  it  was  funny  to  see  him.  I 
think  she  was  laughing  at  him  ;  and  Eunice  says  she's 
sure  of  it. 

"  Aunt  Rose  does  make  such  nice  muffins  now  !  She 
says  she  '  reckons  dem  white  L'isher  cooks  don't  make 
none  no  better  for  Miss  Edith  away  yonder.'  I  reckon  so 
too.     And  now,  when  are  you  coming  home,  dear  sister 


232  SILVEEWOOD. 

Edith  ?  Eunice  and  I  get  on  capitally  without  you  ;  but 
I  think  mother  is  lonely  sometimes.  Last  Sunday  we 
went  to  church  right  early,  and  mother  took  us  to  the 
grave-yard  to  see  where  our  fatffer  is  buried.  I  wish  she 
had  not  gone,  Edith ;  it  made  her  cry,  for  I  saw  tears  in 
her  eyes  all  the  time  Mr.  Morris  was  preaching,  though 
she  didn't  know  I  was  watching  her.  I  like  mother's 
face  to  be  bright  all  the  time — it  seems  to  me  as  if  the 
sun  was  not  shining  when  she  looks  sorry. 

"  Isn't  this  a  brave,  long  letter  ?  But  I  must  stop,  now, 
and  see  if  Homer  has  fed  the  turkeys.  Mother  and 
Eunice  send  best  love  ;  so  do  Uncle  Felix,  and  Aunt 
Rose,  and  Daphne. 

"  Your  ever  affectionate  little  sister, 

'^  JOSEPHA." 

Edith  had  read  the  letter  without  stopping  to  lay  aside 
her  out-door  wrappings,  and  Jacqueline  entered  her  cham- 
ber, as  she  refolded  it. 

''  I  suppose,  of  course,  you  don't  accept  Mrs.  Brearly's 
invitation  for  to-night." 

^'  Why,  '  of  course  V  "  asked  Edith. 

"  Because  you  have  been  out  so  long,  and  left  no  time 
for  the  preparation  of  your  toilet.  What  made  you  stay  so 
unconscionably  ?  I  grew  so  impatient  to  have  you  help 
me  decide  some  points  of  my  dress." 

Edith  might  have  told  her  that  she  had  been  sitting  for 


CONTRASTS.  238 

the  two  past  hours  at  the  miserable  bed-side  of  the  young 
orphan  of  whom  Dr.  Dubois  had  spoken ;  but  she  did  not. 

"As  to  my  toilet,  that  'ashes  of  roses'  moir  antique 
would  be  quite  sufficient  for  my  wants,"  said  Edith. 

"  Bless  me  !  that  wouldn't  do.  It's  to  be  a  gay,  fash- 
ionable party ;  and  with  that  sad-colored  thing,  made  up 
to  your  throat,  too,  why  that  would  be  most  antique,  w^ith 
a  vengeance." 

Edith  remembered,  with  a  sudden  gush  of  tenderness, 
that  the  dress  so  lightly  tossed  aside  in  Jacqueline's 
thoughts,  was  purchased  with  a  secret  pleasure  by  her 
mother,  with  some  money  she  had  hoarded  for  the  purpose, 
as  a  birthday  present ;  and  she  recalled  the  bright  look  of 
gratification  that  dear  face  had  worn,  as  she  surprised  her 
with  it,  and  displayed  its  rich  folds,  and  listened  to  her 
own  admiration  of  the  pure  taste  displayed  in  its  selection ; 
and  then  she  recurred  to  the  loving  alacrity  with  which 
those  skilfull  fingers  had  helped  to  make  it  up,  after  her 
brother  and  sister  had  gone,  bestowing  all  that  was  pos- 
sible in  the  way  of  the  most  beautiful  needlework  upon 
it,  to  add  to  its  attractiveness  as  a  dress — and  to  hear 
it  ridiculed  thus !  Her  heart  summoned  a  tear,  but  the 
steady  eye  remained  unfilmed. 

"  I  think,"  she  only  said,  as  she  turned  the  key  upon 
these  simple,  but  to  her,  touching  memories — "I  think  my 
wisdom  would  be  shown  to  be  superior  to  yours,  by  wear- 
ing neck  and  arms  covered,  with  the  thermometer  at  IS° 

10* 


234  SILVERWOOD. 

Fahrenheit.  It  certainly  is  senseless  folly  for  ladies  to 
expose  themselves,  as  they  do,  at  parties,  with  uncovered 
necks,  arms  bare  to  the  shoulder,  silken  hose,  and  satin 
slippers,  when  gentlemen  are  shivering  in  broadcloth.  I 
wonder  the  latter  are  able  to  put  any  faith  whatever  in 
women's  sense." 

"■  That's  just  the  way  John  is  forever  railing,  when  he 
sees  me  dressed  for  a  party  ;  but  I  set  it  all  down  to  the 
account  of  his  profession.  But,  pray,  where's  the  use  of 
having  beauty,  if  we  don't  display  it  to  the  best  advan- 
tage ?  For  my  part,  I  think  it  would  be  something  like 
folly  to  cover  up  that,^^  and  she  swept  up  her  loosened 
sleeve  to  the  shoulder,  baring  to  Edith's  view,  an  arm  of 
ivory  whiteness. 
»     "You  think  with  Waller— 

"  '  Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired.' 

''  You  deny  imagination  any  exercise,  by  leaving  no 
charms  so  vaguely  defined,  as  to  offer  room  for  its  sugges- 
tions." 

"  Where  there  is  perfection,  imagination  can  have  no- 
thing to  do,"  said  Jacqueline,  conceitedly  ;  ''  and  I  have 
all  the  authority  of  art  on  my  side.  But,  seriously,  now, 
you  are  not  going  to  Mrs.  Brearly's  with  that  queer  dress 
on.  I  should  feel  my  taste  greatly  compromised  by  letting 
you  go  from  this  house  in  no  better  party  trim." 


CONTRASTS.  235 

''  Then  I  might  act  as  your  foil.  But  no,"  and  Edith 
drew  herself  up  with  a  dignity  that  compelled  Jacqueline 
to  feel  for  a  moment  that  she  had  gone  too  far.  "  I  have 
not  had  the  slightest  intention  of  going,  or  wish  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Brearly's  to-night;  so  you  will  be  spared  having 
me  as  your  umhra.''^ 

Dinner  was  no  sooner  over  than  Jacqueline  insisted  on 
some  aid  at  the  hands  of  Edith.  There  could  be  no  pleasure 
in  ministering  to  the  endless  demands  of  so  selfish  a  nature, 
and  the  pertinacious  request  was  rebelled  against,  in- 
wardly ;  but  Edith  remembered  the  "  seventy  times  seven," 
and  complied.  She  had  j  ust  finished  arranging  some  ncEuds 
of  ribbon  on  the  dress  chosen  for  the  evening,  and  was 
farther  provided  with  a  pair  of  white  gloves,  which  were 
to  be  edged  with  a  fall  of  lace,  when  a  servant  came  to 
say,  that  Dr.  Dubois  wished  to  know  if  Miss  Edith  would 
go  with  him  to  see  the  sick  child. 

"  Preposterous  I"  exclaimed  Jacqueline.  "  Tell  him  to 
be  sure  not.     It's  too  late  ;   besides,  she's  busy." 

"  Certainly,  I  will  go,  Jacqueline." 

"  Now,  Edith,  you'll  do  no  such  thing.  It  is  unkind 
in  John  to  be  wanting  you  to  go  at  this  hour.  See,  the 
sun  is  down.     Jane,  light  the  gas." 

"  Tell  him  I  will  be  there  in  a  moment,"  said  Edith, 
emptying  her  lap  of  lace  and  ribbons  ;  but  the  servant  had 
departed  with  Jacqueline's  message. 

"  Now,  don't  go,"  begged  Jacqueline,  seizing  her  hands, 


236  SILVEEWOOD, 

as  she  was  about  to  pass  out.  "  Jane  can't  arrange  the 
flowers  in  my  hair  as  you  can ;  and  I  want  to  look  my 
best  to-night." 

"  I  can  be  back  in  time  to  act  tire- woman ;"  and,  dis- 
engaging herself,  she  hurried  down  stairs.  But  it  was  too 
late ;    Dr.  Dubois  had  gone. 

Jacqueline  sat  in  the  library,  her  head  swathed  in  the 
voluminous  folds  of  a  "  nubia,"  and  a  fur-lined  cloak 
thrown  over  her  shoulders,  awaiting  the  carriage,  while 
her  maid  kneeled  on  the  carpet  beside  her,  drawing  over 
the  white  slippers  a  pair  of  Polish  boots,  when  her  brother 
entered.  He  surveyed  the  arch  and  radiant  face,  gravely, 
even  sternly,  but  without  speaking. 

'*  I  was  extremely  sorry,"  said  Edith,  laying  down  her 
book,  "  that  you  had  gone  before  I  came  down  stairs  this 
evening,  doctor.  I  should  certainly  have  w^alked  with  you 
to  see  your  poor  patient." 

r  .."  I  thought  the  message  I  received  could  not  have  been 
yours." 

"  No.  /  sent  it  out  of  kindness  to  Edith.  She  is  too 
young  and  pretty  to  turn  sister  of  charity  quite  yet." 

*'  Enough,  if  you  please,  Jacqueline.  But  how  is  the 
poor  girl  ?" 

"  Dead,"  replied  Dr.  Dubois,  laconically. 

"  Dead  .^"  repeated  Edith,  w4th  a  start.  ''  Why,  I  saw 
her  this  morning,  and  did  not  conceive  of  the  end  being 
so  near." 


C0NTEAST3.  237 

''  It  is  not  an  hour  since  she  hreathecl  her  last.  Jac- 
qaeline,  I  wish  you  might  have  seen  the  look  of  disap- 
pointment that  wan  face  wore,  when  she  asked  if  ]\Iiss 
Edith  would  not  come  and  see  her  die.  It  would  be 
something  for  you  to  carry  with  you  to  the  party 
to-night." 

"  Pray,  how  could  I  know  she  was  going  to  die  ?" 

"  It  might  have  been  the  same,  if  you  had,"  was  the 
somewhat  bitter  reply.  "  You  have  denied  a  dying  fel- 
low-creature the  only  earthly  solace  she  asked,  that  a  bit 
of  lace,  or  a  knot  of  ribbon,  might  be  more  becomingly 
disposed.     Again,  I  say,  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  evening." 

He  was  about  to  turn  on  his  heel,  when  Edith  detained 
him  ;  and  Jacqueline  starting  up,  with  an  exclamation, 
that  the  aunt  for  whom  she  w^as  to  call,  would  be  tired 
waiting,  kissed  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  Edith,  and  de- 
parted, without  vouchsafing  a  look  towards  her  brother. 

"  Don't  go,"  said  Edith,  with  an  earnest  face,  "  with- 
out letting  me  know,  doctor,  how  poor  Elsie  died.  Ah  ! 
I  ought  not  to  say  j^oor.  She  is  one  of  '  the  just  made 
perfect'  now.  Her  hour  in  Heaven  has  more  than  com- 
pensated for  the  poverty  and  loneliness  of  her  whole  orphan 
life.     She  is  rich  ;  but  how  did  she  die  ?" 

"  "With  a  strange  calmness." 

"  I  knew  she  would  I"  exclaimed  Edith,  with  emotion. 
"  I  thank  God  for  the  redemption  of  the  promise  to  which 
she  was  clinging  so  fondly  this  morning — '  When  thou 
passest  through  the  waters,  I  will  be  with  th^e.'" 


238  SILVERWOOD. 

"  After  all,  Miss  Edith,  there  is  something  mysterious, 
unfathomable  to  me  about  this  religion.  I  have  stood  at 
two  death-beds  to-day, — contrasts  in  every  conceivable 
point, — the  rich  old  man's,  one  of  gloom  ;  this  destitute 
orphan's,  one  of  heavenly  peace.  During  my  life 
abroad,  I  had  almost  learned  to  regard  all  religion  as 
a  delusion  ;  but,  if  it  is,  I  pray  now  to  die  so  deluded." 
^  "  I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Edith,  shad- 
ing her  dark  eyes,  as  she  spoke,  to  hide  the  sudden  dim- 
ness that  clouded  them  ;  "  for,  if  there  is  delusion  in  the 
faith  Christians  profess,  then  is  there  no  truth  anywhere. 
Phantasies  cheat  us  when  we  bring  them  to  a  stern  test ; 
but,  who  ever  heard  of  a  sincere  believer  confessing  on  a 
death-bed,  that  his  experience  had  been  no  more  than  a 
fanatic's  dream  ?  and  who  ever  heard  the  dying  man  of 
the  world  say  other  than  that  his  life  had  been  wasted — 
his  confidence  in  his  principles  deceptive  ?  Nothing  less 
than  the  faith  of  the  Christian  can  carry  the  most  heroic, 
even,  who  looks  death  deliberately  in  the  eye,  fearlessly 
through  the  terrific  struggle." 

"  Soldiers  die  heroically  on  the  battle-field — marching 
up  to  their  death  without  a  tremor." 

"  Yes  ;  where  thought  is  wholly  stifled  amid  the  wild 
confusion  of  war  ;  w^here  man,  the  animal,  entirely  holds 
in  abeyance,  man,  the  intellectual  being.  Bat  think  how 
delicate  women,  who  shrink  from  anything  like  self-de- 
pendance,   step  untremblingly  forth  into  the  dread  un- 


CONTEASTS.  289 

known,  and  meet  death  without  a  thought  of  fear. 
Even  children — those  old  enough  to  be  accountable  agents, 
I  mean,  such  as  poor  Elsie — have  you  not  seen  them  bid 
parents,  brothers,  sisters,  farewell,  with  a  smile  of  joy — 
put  their  trusting  little  hands  into  that  of  the  unseen 
Saviour,  and  suffer  themselves  to  be  led  away  without  a 
tear  ?" 

"  The  Hindoo  wife  chants  her  death-song  on  the  funeral 
pile ;  the  Pagan  Socrates  encounters  the  future  with 
a  smile  ;  the  atheist  Mirabeau  breathes  out  his  soul  in  a 
sensuous  rapture  ;  the  philosophic  Groethe  placidly  de- 
parts with  the  exclamation  for  '  more  light '  on  his  lips. 
Let  but  the  faith  be  unshaken  in  what  the  soul  professes 
to  believe,  and  it  can  go  on  calmly.  Christians  sometimes 
die  in  gloom  ;   and  mere  moralists  die — " 

"Ah!  never  in  triumph,"  said  Edith,  quickly.  "To 
wear  the  outward  garb  of  serenity,  is  the  utmost  their 
philosophy  can  compass.  Christians  may  pass  away 
under  a  cloud  ;  but  none,  I  believe,  ever  do,  who  have 
'  adorned  the  doctrine  of  G-od  their  Saviour,'  unless  phys- 
ical reasons  can  account  for  it,  as  in  the  case  of  the  poet 
Cowper.  You  may  remember  Dr.  Johnson's  reply,  when 
he  was  told  of  the  calmness  with  which  some  criminal  had 
met  death — '  Sir,  they  never  thought  in  their  lives.'  So 
with  a  fearful  multitude — the  first  thorough  waking  up 
of  thought  is  beyond  the  grave." 

"  It  is   all   a  mystery — life — death,"  said  Dr.  Dubois, 


240  SILVEKWOOD. 

musingly.  ''  Under  your  guidance,  Miss  Edith,  I  might 
arrive  at  safer  conclusions  than  have  ever  visited  me  yet ; 
but  I  am  compelled  to  go  now,  most  unwillingly.  I  wish 
you  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Brearly's,  for  you  will  have  a  lonely 
time  of  it  by  yourself — though  here  comes  my  father  to 
keep  you  company." 

"  With  all  these  silent,  unobtrusive,  delightful  compan- 
ions," said  Edith,  pointing  to  the  rows  of  volumes  that 
lined  the  library  walls,  "  I  w^ould  be  most  unreasonable  ■ 
to  complain  of  loneliness  ;  and,  I  dare  say,  Mr.  Dubois  and 
I  will  find  our  re-union  composed  of  choicer  spirits  than 
any  that  grace  Mrs.  Brearly's  rooms  to-night." 


XXII. 

%  §Mpt  into  a  leart. 

— <<  Why  weepest  thou  ?" — Editli  started  at  the  tone  and 
the  words,  for  there  was  a  suffusion  about  her  own  eyes, 
as  she  sat  lonely  and  thoughtful  in  the  corner  of  a  pew 
that  Sabbath  afternoon — a  mood  superinduced,  perhaps, 
in  some  degree,  by  the  mournful  music  that  had  just  died 
away,  leaving  the  air  still  undulating  from  the  waves  of 
sound  stirred  by  the  full- toned  organ.  "  Why  weepest 
thou  ?"  The  words  were  again  repeated  by  another  voice 
than  the  one  that  had  conducted  the  previous  services, 
and  Edith  bent  forward  with  a  look  as  eager  as  if  she 
supposed  the  question  specially  addressed  to  herself. 

The  clergyman  began,  in  a  low  pervading  voice,  by 
describing  the  presence  of  death  in  a  dwelling — the  un- 
utterable, unearthly  loneliness  that  "  stays  on,"  even  when 
the  straight,  cold  form  is  carried  from  the  darkened  cham- 
ber, to  its  last  resting-place — the  return  of  the  stricken 
ones  to  the  forsaken  home,  from  which  no  sun  seems  bright 


242  SILVERWOOD. 

enough  ever  again  to  chide  away  the  gloom — the  pall-like 
settling  down  of 

"  The  shadows  all  have  known,  who  from  their  hearts 
Have  released  friends  to  heaven." 

He  portrayed  them  as  the  experience  of  the  loving  Mary 
durins:  that  most  desolate  to  her  of  all  Sabbaths — the  one 
in  which  her  Redeemer  lay  in  the  tomb  of  Joseph.  He 
spoke  of  the  restless,  aching  heart  that  could  know  no 
quiet,  that  drew  her  away  from  her  sleepless  pillow  before 
the  morning  light,  to  "  the  place  where  they  laid  him." 
Those  hands,  clasped  in  such  speechless  agony,  had  broken 
the  alabaster-box  of  precious  ointment  over  the  stirless 
head  of  the  beloved  Master — that  hair,  falling  over  the  tear- 
stained  face,  had  wiped  the  wearied  feet  that  were  never 
more  to  be  worn  with  earthly  travel ;  but  even  the 
strange,  the  awful  pleasure  of  looking,  as  she  had  hoped, 
upon  that  dead  brow — of  binding  her  costly  spices  about 
those  wounded  hands — of  touching  the  pierced*  feet,  was  to 
be  denied  her.  The  indistinct  thought  which  his  words, 
remembered  but  not  understood,  had  left  in  her  mind — the 
something  between  her  and  utter  hopelessness — was  taken 
away — Jesus  was  dead  I  The  passionate  intensity  of  her 
woman'  love  and  tenderness  are  thrown  back  upon  heart, 
and  it  is  crushed — ^broken  ! 

"  Why  weepest  thou  ?"  It  was  not  strange  the  tempest 
of  such  a  grief  should  drown  the  divine  pathos  of  those 


A  GLIMPSE  INTO  A  HEART.  243 

words, — ^'  They  have  taken  away  my  Lord  !"  How 
uncontrollable  the  "burst  of  tears  at  the  designation  she 
herself  uses  ! — "  my  Lord  I"  And  the  head,  for  a  moment 
lifted,  falls  again  upon  the  tightened  hands  in  fresh  bit- 
terness. 

'^  Mary  V  Was  it  from  heaven  the  sound  came  ? 
Surely  that  was  the  voice  of  the  Beloved  !  Her  whole 
being  thrills  to  its  more  than  human  sweetness ;  she  looks 
up  ;  the  tears  tremble  unshed  in  her  glistening  eyes  ;  she 
turns ;  she  springs  forwards ;  she  falls  at  his  feet  with  the 
rapturous  exclamation — "  Rabboni  /"  Then  the  speaker 
considered  earth'-s  many  weepers,  and  the  causes  of  their 
varied  sorrows — the  tears  that  are  shed  over  disappointed 
hopes,  worldly  crosses,  losses  and  trials;  and  sho»vedthat 
not  under  the  pressure  of  such  griefs,  when  borne  as  the 
world  bears  them,  might  we  expect  to  hear  the  word  of 
comfort  whispered  divinely  to  our  hearts.  But  when  the 
soul  pines  in  sadness  and  desertion  because  the  Beloved  is 
gone — goes  to  the  cross  and  the  tomb  with  the  "  sweet 
spices"  of  love  and  devotion,  and  turns  away  uncomforted, 
from  those  it  supposes  only  the  keepers  of  earthly  gar- 
dens— then  it  is  that  under  such  a  revelation  as  Mary's, 
it  will  be  enabled  with  no  less  joy,  to  exclaim — "Master  !" 

Edith's  full  heart  responded  while  she  listened,  and 
under  the  irresistible  tide  of  other  memories  and  influ- 
ences, she  had  almost  forgotten  where  she  was  ;  for,  when 
she  had  last  heard  that  voice,  the  falling  leaves  of  autumn 


244  SILVER  WOOD. 

were  rustling  around  the  country  church  through  which 
its  tones  rang;  for  it  was  Bryant  Woodruff  who  occupied 
the  pulpit. 

She  remained  in  the  distant  pew  until  the  congregation 
had  almost  entirely  dispersed,  waiting  to  speak  with  him. 
Slowly  he  followed  down  the  long  aisle,  after  parting  with 
the  clergyman  for  whom  he  had  officiated,  and  was  just 
passing  out  with  the  last  stragglers,  when  a  turn  of  his 
head  brought  her  into  view.  In  an  instant  he  was  at  her 
side,  with  an  expression  on  his  face  that  bespoke  the  ut- 
most perplexity. 

"  I  must  see  more  of  you,"  he  said,  after  a  few  hurried 
questions,  still  pressing  her  hand  between  both  of  his  own. 
"  If  I  walk  with  you  to  Mr.  Dubois',  I  must  see  the  fam- 
ily, of  course,  and  that  I  don't  want ;  and  most  unfortu- 
nately, I  am  obliged  to  go  by  the  earliest  morning  train. 
Stay  !  I  know  the  sexton.     Excuse  me  for  one  moment." 

Bryant  returned  after  a  few  minutes'  absence.  "  The 
sexton  has  the  lecture-room  below  stairs,  disarranged  by 
the  Sunday-school,  to  get  in  order  for  a  meeting  to-night ; 
so  he  will  be  about  the  church  for  some  little  time,  and 
we  will  just  sit  here.  Now  tell  me  all  about  the  why 
and  wherefore  of  your  being  here  so  unexpectedly." 

*' And  why?"  he  asked,  half  reproachfully,  when  Edith 
had  satisfied  him  ;  "  why  did  Cousin  Mary  not  write  to 
me,  and  put  the  affair  into  my  hands  ?  You  see  I  am 
here  at   any  rate,   on   some    business    of   my  own,   and 


A   GLIMPSE  INTO   A  HEART.  245 

you  might  have  been  spared  all  the  trouble  of  so  long  a 
journey?" 

Edith  explained ;  but  he  seemed  almost  hurt,  and  in- 
sisted that  he  would  return,  (after  he  had  gone  and  per- 
formed the  marriage  ceremony  that  called  him  home,)  see 
Mr.  Bryson,  and  then  conduct  her  safe  to  Silverwood. 

Edith  told  him  that  the  business  with  Mr.  Bryson  was 
to  be  finally  settled  the  next  day — that  she  had  his  pro- 
mise to  that  effect,  and  that  the  same  gentleman,  a 
pleasant,  elderly  man,  who  had  been  her  companion  to 

,  expected  to  go  back  to  Milburne  in  a  few  days ;  so 

that,  however  she  might  be  tempted  to  accept  his  kind- 
ness, she  felt  it  would  be  wholly  unnecessary  to  put  him 
to  all  that  trouble.  He  was  induced  to  think  so,  too,  at 
length.  Then  they  talked  about  Lawrence  and  Zilpha, 
and  he  gave  her  some  of  the  incidents  of  the  southward 
journey,  which  their  letters  had  omitted — incidents  that 
had  more  meaninsr  in  them  to  his  listener's  ear  than  he 
was  aware,  perhaps,  of  conveying. 

"  Edith,"  he  said,  suddenly,  tightening  the  clasp  of  his 
fingers  over  her  hand ;  ''  Edith,  if  the  companionship  of 
the  purest,  loftiest-thoughted,  most  exquisitely-balanced, 
and  most  symmetrical  of  all  the  minds  I  have  ever  had 
knowledge  of,  cayi  do  anything  for  the  physical  man, 
Lawrence  will  get  well.  I  sounded  the  depth  of  Zilpha's 
nature  more  during  those  few  days'  of  travel  with  her, 
than  ever  before.     I  got  nearer,  and  looked  deeper  into  it, 


246  SILVERWOOD. 

and  how  crystalline  clear  it  is — so  placid,  so  serene,  that 
casual  gazers  might  fancy  its  depths  easily  fathomed,  till 
they  find,  from  trial,  that  they  have  no  line  long  enough. 
There  is  such  a  sweet  simplicity — such  an  ingenuous 
directness — such  a  singleness  of  purpose,  in  all  she  says 
and  does.  No  disguisements  ;  no  concealments  ;  none  of 
the  innocent  and  pretty  vanities — forgive  me  for  saying  it — 
which  cling,  in  more  or  less  degree,  to  almost  all  women. 
She  has  the  artless  guilelessness  of  a  child,  united  to  the 
ripe,  mature  susceptibilities  of  the  most  perfect  woman- 
hood. Ah  !  Edith  !  it  is  a  beautiful  soul !  I  meet  its 
steady  gaze  out  of  those  clear  pupils,  and  I  wonder  how 
they  can  reveal  to  me  so  much.  I  think  I  know  now 
what  Wordsworth  means  by  'the  harvest  of  a  quiet 
eye ;'  but  when  I  see  how  her  fine,  natural  characteris- 
tics are  heightened  and  purified  by  the  all-pervading  love 
and  gentleness  of  Christ,  you  would  think  me  extrava- 
gant were  I  to  say  all  I  feel.  "With  many,  the  very  depth 
of  this  religious  sentiment  may  sometimes  too  much 
chasten  mere  earthly  enjoyment ;  but  it  is  far  different 
with  her.  It  is  the  lucid  medium  through  which  every 
object  seems  clothed  with  more  than  its  own  brightness. 
Yes ;  it  is  a  beautiful  soul !" 

The  hand  over  which  Bryant's  had  been  closed,  was 
withdrawn  while  he  had  been  speaking,  to  shade  the 
averted  face ;  but  in  his  earnest  utterance  he  had  not 
noticed  the  gesture.    He  looked  up  as  if  awaiting  a  reply ; 


A  GLIMPSE   INTO  A   HEART.  247 

and  if  Zilpha  had  stood  transfigured  to  his  thought,  in 
the  light  of  love  and  memory,  Edith  was  no  less  so  that 
moment  to  his  eye,  for  through  the  stained  glass  of  the 
western  window,  the  setting  sun  poured  in  its  rays  of 
crimson  and  gold  over  her  face. 

*'  Ah  !  don't  destroy  the  illusion,"  he  said,  detaining  her 
from  moving  behind  a  pillar ;  "  you  make  me  almost 
fancy  that  Zilpha  is  before  me.  The  burnished  gleam  on 
your  hair  gives  its  black  a  chestnut  tinge  like  hers,  and 
the  glow  over  your  white  cheek  warms  it  to  her  color. 
I  wonder  I  never  traced  more  resemblance  between  you 
before — the  same  straight  nose ;  the  same  short  upper 
lip  and  curved  mouth.     Yes,  Edith,  you  are  like  her." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Edith,  turning  away  her  face ;  ''  there 
is  not  much  outward  resemblance,  and  less  inward,  I'm 
afraid.  Oh  !  to  be  more  like  her  !  for  she  is  even  lovelier 
than  your  words  have  made  her.  You  are  right ;  Zilpha — 
our  Zilpha — " 

''  Ou7'  Zilpha,"  repeated  Bryant,  catching  the  emphasis 
quickly;  "  why  do  you  say  that  ?" 

^'  Because — because — "  Edith  bowed  her  head  down 
upon  the  seat,  as  if  a  sudden  faintness  had  seized  her. 
The  choked  voice  could  go  no  further.  Bryant  gently 
raised  her,  and  put  back,  with  his  finger,  the  fold  of  hair 
that  had  loosened  over  her  forehead  ;  but  it  would  come — 
that  heavy  drop,  and  he  felt  it  fall  upon  his  hand. 

''  I  am  not  surprised  you  should  suffer  in  her  absence 


24:8  SILVERWOOD. 

from  you.  I  know  how  hard  that  is  to  bear."  Yet  the 
tender  considerateness  of  his  manner  did  not  soothe 
Edith.  The  touch  of  his  hand  she  almost  shrank  from,  as 
if  it  had  power  to  give  her  pain. 

But  the  gathering  twilight  was  settling  down  over  the 
empty  pews.  Just  then  the  sexton  appeared,  and  signi- 
fied his  readiness  to  close  the  church ;  so  silently  drawing 
Edith's  hand  within  his  arm,  Bryant  passed  out  with  her 
from  that  Sabbath  solitude  to  the  unwelcome  noise  and 
hurry  of  the  thronged  pavement  again. 


XXI IL 


|ntr0spttih* 


"  It  is  over  at  last — my  beautiful  dream  !  I  am  awake 
now,  and  see  all  too  clearly  what  I  might  have  known,  if  I 
would,  long  ago.  Yes;  I  might  have  been  sure  that  it 
was  impossible  he  should  be  associated  with  her  as  he  has 
been,  and  not  love  her  with  all  the  passion  of  his  strong, 
noble  heart :  and  it  is  right  ;  she  is  worthier  than  I  of 
such  love  ;  she  is  all  he  has  described  her — just  as  pure  ; 
just  as  akin  to  the  angels  above  us.  There  is  no  wrong 
done  me.  My  own  blind  heart  alone  is  to  blame  for  the 
throbbing  pain  that  aches  through  it,  and  it  shall  bear  its 
own  punishment.  Many  and  many  are  the  unrecognised 
martyrs  that  have  walked  smiling  over  this  earth,  while 
the  fiery  cross  to  which  they  have  been  bound,  burned, 
and  the  ashes  of  blight  smouldered  above  their  dead  affec- 
tions. If  it  is  appointed  me  to  join  their  train,  have  I  any 
risjht  to  murmur  ? 

*'  Yes ;  I  can  understand  now,  what  I  have  been  accus- 
11 


250  SILVERWOOD. 

tomed  to  misconstrue.  It  was  from  my  book  he  always 
read,  when  we  used  sometimes  to  study  together — not 
hers.  I,  silly  thing !  did  not  dream  that  his  unconscious 
love — unconfcssed  even  to  himself,  perhaps,  then — would 
have  blurred  the  lines  for  him,  had  he  felt  her  eyes  on  the 
same  page — did  not  imagine  why  the  voluble  tongue, 
that  owned  no  constraint  in  viy  presence,  was  often  silent 
in  hers — did  not  know  why  his  hand  should  so  often  close 
untremblingly  over  mine,  yet  never  touch  hers  I 

''  How  steadily  she  went  on  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge 
from  the  pure  love  of  it !  I  always  knew  my  own  motive 
to  be  less  noble.  My  heart  could  not  hide  from  me,  that 
for  his  sake,  I  was  striving  to  develope  to  the  utmost, 
whatever  native  powers  I  possessed — for  his  sake  I  per- 
sisted in  studies  such  as  she  thought  too  much  out  of  wo- 
man's line — ^that  it  was  his  tastes,  rather  than  my  own,  I 
was  seeking  to  please — his  stand-point  I  loved  to  assume 
— his  sympathies  to  which  I  was  fitting  the  key,  which, 
nevertheless,  wound  readily  through  the  same  wards,  and 
unlocked  kindred  feelings  in  the  depths  of  my  own  nature. 
His  enthusiasms  did  ever  seem  more  nearly  allied  with 
mine  than  with  hers.  Nature's  heart  interested  her  the 
most.  The  human  heart,  with  its  loves  and  sufferings,  its 
hopes,  and  its  fears,  and  its  tendernesses,  was  a  choicer 
study — a  more  congenial  theme  to  me,  and  I  think,  too,  to 
him.  But  Nature  was  to  her  only  another  name  for 
Grod  ;  and  in  her  purer  simplicity  of  soul,  the  wisdom  the 


I 


INTROSPECTIVE.  251 

stars  taught,  was  holier  to  her  than  what  I  gathered  from 
earthly  constellations — the  poetry  of  woods,  and  waters,  and 
flowers,  and  hirds,  truer  and  more  perfect  than  what  I 
learned  from  the  heart  of  man.  When  I,  following  in  the 
wake  of  his  chosen  favorites, was  content  to  find  my  delight 
in  the  pathos  or  passion  of  classic  dramatists,  or,  in  the 
livid  gloom  of  Dante,  or  the  fancy  of  Spencer,  or  the  majes- 
ty of  Milton,  or  the  philosophy  of  Wordsworth,  receiving  the 
interpretations  of  Nature  second-hand,  from  such  high- 
priests  as  these,  she  turned  from  them,  in  their  '  singing 
robes,'  and  with  their  swinging  censers,  and  for  herself, 
entered  Nature's  'holy  of  holies,'  because  the  sanctifying 
blood  of  a  divine  High  Priest  had  forever  consecrated  it  to 
her  as  the  temple  of  his  earthly  praise.  Hers  has  been 
the  holier  worship.  It  is  right  she  should  have  the  most 
of  this  life's  reward. 

"  He  has  loved  her  best,  perhaps,  for  this  very  differ- 
ence of  tastes.  We  covet  most  what  we  do  not  ourselves 
possess.  There  must  be  contrariety — beautiful  and  har- 
monious antagonism.  What  one  has  not,  is  sought  for  in 
the  other — thus  the  cycle  of  qualities  is  completed.  The 
union  of  the  two  forms  one  perfect  soul;  and  she  will 
wholly  satisfy  him,  for  love  will  stand  and  hold  the 
torrh  by  which  they  will  study  together  all  of  life's  beau- 
tiful and  mysterious  lessons.  And  I ;  shall  I  sullenly 
shut  my  page,  because  for  me,  this  torch  is  an  inverted 
one  now  ?     Shall  all  my  book  of  the  future  be  blotted,  or 


252  SILVERWOOD. 

its  record  of  blight  be  written  only  with  bitter  tears? 
This  is  what  a  thwarted  heart  would  dictate  ;  but  what 
right  have  I  to  let  a  fellow  mortal  shadow  from  me  all 
brightness  ?  There  are  other  torches  than  that  of  love. 
Fame  holds  a  flaming  one.  Shall  I  let  the  dormant  power 
I  am  sometimes  half  conscious  of,  flash  forth  to  meet  it  ? 
Yes,  if  I  would  find,  in  the  end,  that  from  which  my  wo- 
man's nature  would  turn,  misled  and  unsolaced — that 
which  would  go  out,  and  leave  me  in  pitiless  gloom. 

"  There  are  others  to  be  loved  and  lived  for.  To  be  hap- 
py, was  not  God's  first  object  in  creatmg  us,  but  to  be  holy, 
to  do,  and  to  bear,  that  happiness  may  follow.  How  often 
have  J  pleaded  the  theory  of  necessary  discipline  ;  and 
now,  when  it  comes,  to  teach  me  to  grow  stronger,  and  bet- 
ter, and  more  unselfish,  I  faint  over  the  lesson,  I  murmur — 
so  inconsistent,  and  so  like  me  I  Part,  '  fine  gold ;'  part, 
*  miry  clay  ! ' 

"'Why  weepest  thou?'  He  might  put  the  question 
now. 

"But  a  dearer  than  he  puts  it,  even  one  who,  above  a' 
others,  can  be  '  touched  with  the  feeling  ol'  our  infirm' 
ties,'  earthly  and  human  as  they  are  ;  one  who  will  no 
turn  from  me,  though  my  heart  be  as  an  empty  sepulchre, 
if.  with  the  weeping  Mary's  glad  faith,  I  can  fall  at  his 
feetj  exclaiming — '  Rabhonir  " 


XXIV. 

^'  To-day,  I  think  you  said,  Mr.  Bryson  set  to  call  upon, 
you,  or  promised  to  let  you  hear  from  him.  Has  he  done 
either?" 

Edith  roused  herself  from  the  corner  of  the  sofa,  on 
which  she  sat,  to  reply  to  Mr.  Dubois'  question ;  and  the 
coming  hack  of  the  soul  to  the  eye  that  had  been  gazing 
on  vacancy,  was  "  like  the  advent  of  a  star." 

"  Neither,  did  you  say  ?  I'm  afraidj  Edith,  he  means 
to  play  you  some  trick  yet." 

^'  Oh  !     I  hope  not— I  think  not." 

"With  all  my  heart,  I  hope  not,  too  ;  but  business 
hours  are  over  now,  so  you  will  not  see  him  to-day,  I 
fear." 

The  quiet  grey  of  night  was  settling  down,  like  a 
mother's  twilight  ''  hush,"  upon  the  city. 

"  The  day  was  done,  and  slowly  from  the  scene, 
The  stooping  sun  had  gathered  his  spent  shafts, 
And  put  thera  back  into  his  golden  quiver." 


254:  SILVERWOOD. 

Edith  walked  alone  up  and  down  the  long  rooms,  mur- 
muring to  herself  half  whisperingly,  half  audibly,  a  strain 
that  fell  in  with  the  mood  that  was  upon  her. 

I  TURN  TO  THEE. 

I  TURN  to  Thee  !     My  heart  has  been 

A  desecrated  shrine  ; 
And  on  its  holiest  aUar,  where 

Should  burn  a  flame  divine, 
Strange  fire  consumed  a  sacrifice, 

That  was  not  wholly  Thine. 

For  when  my  soul  in  seeming  faith 

To  Theehas  sought  to  bow, 
Divided  worship  filled  each  prayer, 

And  breathed  in  every  vow. 
Forgive  I — my  idol  stands  revealed — 

The  veil  has  fallen  now  ! 

Cleanse  Thou  the  temple,  great  High  Priest  ! 

Anoint  its  altar-stone — 
The  blood  that  wet  Thy  wounded  hands, 

Is  ready  to  atone  ; 
And  be  my  offerings  consecrate 

Henceforth  to  God  alone  ! 

Within  Thy  golden  censer  now, 

Bear  heavenward,  I  implore, 
As  bruis'd  frankincense  and  as  myrrh, 

The  tears  and  prayers  I  pour, 
And  let  an  earthly  worship  fill 

My  hallowed  heart  no  more. 


DISAPPOINTED  HOPES.  255 

^' '  No  wore /'"  repeated  a  voice  at  her  side,  as  her 
hand  was  lifted  and  laid  on  an  arm  almost  invisible  in 
the  growing  darkness.  "  Madame  de  Stael  used  to  say 
those  were  the  saddest  intonations  in  our  language,  and 
from  the  pathos  with  which  they  come  from  your  lips, 
I  am  not  inclined  to  question  the  truth  of  her  assertion. 
Let  me  join  your  promenade,  Miss  Edith,  ^vdiile  you  tell 
me  why  you  are  chanting  anything  so  mou;nful.  I  half 
fancied  you  ill,  from  the  pallor  of  your  lips,  to-day ;  and 
now,  in  my  professional  capacity,  I  might  claim  the  right 
to  feel  your  pulse,"  and  a  smile,  revealed  to  her  by  the 
street  lamp  opposite,  played  over  Dr.  Dubois'  manly  face, 
as  he  lightly  laid  his  finger  on  her  wrist. 

"  You  are  very  sympathizing,  doctor  ;  but  I  am  perfect- 
ly well — only  disappointed,  and  home-sick." 

"  Disappointment,  on  a  lady's  lip,  has  a  delicate 
meaning.     "We  summon  up  une  affaire  de  c<£ur  at  once." 

"Unluckily,  mine  has  regard  to  money — something 
the  world  holds  as  of  far  higher  value  than  hearts — " 

"And  for  which  you  know  the  world  to  be  a  dotard. 
But  is  the  matter  anything  in  which  my  assistance  can 
avail  you  ?     Command  me  in  anything — everything." 

Edith  thanked  him — assured  him  that  he  could  do 
nothing  for  her  in  the  case  in  question,  and  begged  pardon 
for  having  so  frankly  confessed  the  causes  of  any  inquie- 
tude she  misfht  have  manifested. 

"Ah!"  replied  Dr.   Dubois,    in    answer  to  her   query 


256  SILVERWOOD. 

about  Mr.  Carey,  the  gentleman  who  was  to  accompany 
her  home — "  am  I  bound  to  come  out  with  the  unwilling 
fact  ?  Then  I  did  meet  him  to-day,  and  he  bade  me  say 
he  would  leave  this  on  the  coming  Thursday.  But 
Christmas  is  just  upon  us.  Stay  till  its  festivities  are  over, 
or  till  it  is  warmer.  Our  hospitality  will  be  compromised 
by  permitting  you  to  go  during  such  weather  as  this." 

But  Edith  was  resolute  in  putting  aside  these  and  a 
dozen  other  reasons  which  he  arrayed  before  her. 

*' You  would  do  much — practice  any  amount  of  self- 
denial,  to  accomplish  a  good  action,"  he  persisted.  "  Now, 
if  you  were  here  to  keep  Jacqueline  within  bounds,  and  to 
set  me  right,  there's  no  knowing  what  you  might  not  eftcct 
by  Spring.  Miss  Edith,  I  am  restless  and  dissatisfied 
with  myself  and  the  world.  I  feel  that  you  could  put  me 
at  one  with  both — " 

"  You  overstate  my  power,  wholly,"  said  Edith,  inter- 
ruptingly,  "  I  am  not  at  one  w^ith  myself,  always.  There 
is  a  want  of  reconcilement  between  the  outer  and  the 
inner,  oftentimes." 

"•  You  !  I  thought  Christians  professed  to  possess  a 
peace  above,  and  independent  of  the  world — that  they 
were  '  the  central  calm  at  the  heart  of  all  amtation.'  " 

"  They  ought  to  be,  and  are,  when  true  to  Grod  and  to 
themselves  ;  but  they  sink  beneath  the  burden  of  the  same 
weaknesses  as  others,  and  are  often  false  to  both." 

"  Yet  it  seems  to  me,  if  I  believed  and  felt  as  you  do, 


1 


DISAPPOINTED  HOPES.  257 

I  should  have  a  happiness  nothing  coulc  disturh.  As 
it  is,  I  am  tossed  on  a  sea  of  doubts —  ny  head  often 
yielding,  while  I  have  been  listening  to  7our  advocacy 
of  solemn  themes,  while  my  heart  is  prote^ting." 

"  Ah  I  that  is  just  the  difficulty.  It  is  the  heart  always 
that  is  the  last  brought  to  terms.  Man's  pride  is  so  in- 
veterate, he  iviil  not  come  to  his  Maker,  confessing  that 
he  is  utterly  undone  and  wretched." 

"  And  would  you  deny  humanity  all  claim  to  native 
goodness  ?  We  are  accustomed  often  to  speak  of  it  in  the 
abstract,  as  something  god-like." 

"  Grod-like  in  its  capacities  and  unending  being,  but 
ruined  now,  and  like  an  ancient  temple,  from  which  all 
the  glory  of  tiie  worship  has  departed,  with  only  here  and 
there  remnants  of  broken  freize  and  architrave,  to  tell 
what  the  first  splendor  has  been.  The  Master-builder 
only  can  '  restore  the  glory  of  the  former  house,'  and  raise 
'  the  head-stone  thereof,  with  shoutings  of  Grrace  !  Grrace !' 
The  ruin  is  all  our  own — the  restoration  wholly  His. 
As  all  good  originates  in  God,  so  must  it  all  terminate 
there." 

"But  that  He  should  make  His  own  glory  creation's 
end  and  aim — is  not  that  to  associate  the  idea  of  selfishness 
with  Him  ?" 

"The  creature's  highest,  only  good,  is  inseparably 
involved  in  the  promotion  of  God's  glory.  To  attain  to 
absolute    perfection   is   the   noblest   aim    the   spirit   can 

11* 


258  SILVERWOOD. 

set  itself,  and  that  is  found  alone  in  God  ;  so  that 
what  tends  to  our  highest  good,  tends  equally  to  His 
glory."  _ 

"  And  must  there  be  such  entire  self-abnegation  that 
God  and  holiness  must  be  loved,  not  because  it  is  our 
highest  interest  to  do  so,  but  because  He  commands  it  ?" 

"  We  are  incapable  of  acting  without  motive,  and 
motives,  too,  that  appeals  to  our  self-love ;  and  as  the 
Creator,  who  has  so  constituted  us,  addresses  Himself  in 
all  His  commands  to  this  inherent  principle,  we  are 
not  required  to  divide  the  two.  He  has  made  it  our  best 
interest  to  live  to  His  glory  ;  and  though  there  be  self- 
abnegation,  utter  and  entire,  as  regards  any  innate  good- 
ness, or  any  claim  upon  God's  mercy.  He  does  permit  the 
notion  of  reivard  to  influence  us  ;  reward,  not  for  what 
vje  have  done,  but  for  Ins  obedience  who  perfectly  kept 
the  law,  and  then  submitted  to  die  under  its  curse,  as  though 
He  were  the  most  criminal  of  all  creatures — thus  making 
over  to  us  that  recompense  for  which  he  obeyed  and  suf- 
ferred.  Man  has  nothins^  to  do  but  to  aarree  to  this  sub- 
stitation,  and  stretch  forth  the  hand  of  faith  that  he  may 
receive  the  benefits  of  it.  In  this  view  of  the  subject, 
must  not  self-renunciation  seem  the  only  thing  left  for  the 
ingenuous  mind  ?" 

"  Ah!  Miss  Edith,  were  you  my  chaplain,  I  would  insti- 
tute daily  services,  and  become  a  devout  attendant." 

"  I  would  be  but  a  faltering  instructor.     This  city  is 


DISAPPOIXTED  HOPES.  259 

fall  of  pulpit.Sj  from  whick  you  might  have  the  truth  in  its 
purity.  AYliy  not  consent  to  put  yourself  in  the  posture  of 
a  learner  ?" 

''  Pride,  you  would  say,  and  no  doubt  too  truly." 
^'  But  there  is  a  humility  that  is  ennobling — that  makes 
human  pride  seem  a  mean  and  dwarfed  thing  in  the  com- 
parison : 

*'  *  The  bird  that  soars  on  highest  wing, 
Builds  on  the  ground  its  lowly  nest.'  " 

"It  is  when  we  measure  the  distanoe  between  us  and  the 
fixed  stars,  that  we  learn  how  scarcely  to  be  taken  into 
the  reckoning,  is  the  shadow  our  earth  casts.  So  when 
humility  attempts  to  measure  the  space  between  her  and 
the  fixed  star  of  Grod's  infinitude,  does  her  own  shadow 
shorten  into  nothingness.  Which  then  is  the  loftier — hu- 
mility's upward,  or  pride's  downward  gaze  ?" 

But,  with  the  lighting  of  the  chandelier,  came  Jacque- 
line from  above  stairs,  with  some  gay  friends  as  rattling  as 
herself;  and  the  conversation  which  was  growing  so  grave 
was  suspended. 

"  News  for  you  !"  exclaimed  Jacqueline  the  next  morn- 
ing, as  for  a  moment  she  picked  up  the  fresh  paper  that 
had  just  been  laid  on  the  breakfast  table,  and  she  read  the 
paragraph : 

"  Mr.  Thomas  Bryson,  one  of  the  largest  shipping  mer- 
chants of  our  city,  who  has  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  be 


260  SILVERWOOD.^' 

compelled  to  wind  up  business,  in  corsequence,  ^Ye  be- 
lieve, of  the  failure  of  a  foreign  house,  sailed  on  Saturday, 

with  his  family,  in  the ,  for  Liverpool.     He  expects 

to  reside  abroad  for  some  years  ;  as  in  Germany  he  can 
educate  his  sons  at  less  expense  than  here.  Oar  old  friend 
bears  our  sympathies  with  him  in  his  misfortunes,  and 
constrained  expatriation." 

Edith  dropped  her  fork  with  a  pang. 

"The  hypocrite  !"  ejaculated  Mr.  Dubois,  energetically. 

"  No  such  thing  as  the  failure  of  a  foreign  house.  That's 
a  story  of  his  own  getting  up,  to  cover  his  villainous  spec- 
ulations.    I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it — " 

"Or  rather  his  wife's  heartless  extravagance,"  interrupt- 
ed the  doctor. 

"  Both — both,  Edith;  I  feared  some  ruse^  my  dear.  It 
is  too  bad — too  bad  I" 

Dr.  Dubois  made  some  demand  for  enlightenment,  and 
his  father  explained  the  nature  of  E tilth's  transaction  with 
him. 

"Villain  !  swindler  I"  cried  the  doctor,  striking  his  hand 
upon  tRe  table  vehemently.  "  You  see,  sir,  what  roguery 
that  unjust  law  leads  to." 

"  What  law  ?" 

"  That  allows  the  property  a  man  may  choose  to  make 
over  to  his  wife,  to  be  free  from  all  the  liabilities  of  the 
husband  ;  thus  holding  out  a  bribe  to  commit  fraud.  Kow 
this  woman,  in  the  eye  of  common  justice,  is  a  swindler  ; 
yet  she  transgresses  no  law  of  the  commonwealth." 


DISAPPOINTED   HOPES.  261 

"  And  what  will  become  of  the  fine  house  and  furni- 
ture?" asked  Jacqueline.  "  If  there  is  a  sale,  papa,  I 
want  you  to  buy  me  that  beautiful  copy  of  Raffaelle's  '  For- 
narina'  that  hangs  in  one  of  their  rooms." 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing.  I  wouldn't  have  anything 
that  would  perpetuate  my  memory  of  Bryson  in  my  house. 
Edith,  I  wish  the  proceeds  of  the  sale — for,  of  course, 
there'll  be  one — could  be  diverted  into  your  purse  ;  but  I 
dare  say  all  is  arranged  fair  and  square  to  suit  the  honest 
lady." 

"  And  to  think  of  his  promise  !"  said  Edith,  in  a  tone  of 
the  utmost  disappointment. 

"  He  was  too  cowardly  to  let  you  know  in  plain  terms, 
as  his  wife  did,  that  he  meant  deliberately  to  cheat  you. 
Your  poor  mother — how  grieved  I  am  for  her  !  You  will 
have  to  take  your  chance  with  the  other  creditors  now." 

"  Now  for  home — home  with  my  heavy  disappoint- 
ment I"  sighed  Edith,  as  she  threw  herself  into  a  chair 
drawn  up  before  her  chamber  fire,  and  tried  to  press  back 
the  hot  drops  that  persisted  in  starting  from  her  eyes. 
"  Have  pity,  Father  !  They  succeed  each  other  fast — 
the  brier  and  the  thorn — and  my  spirit  faints,  as  I  look 
forward  and  ask,  '  What  next  ?'  But,  '  my  grace  shall  be 
sufficient  for  Thee — my  strength  shall  be  perfected  in  Thy 
weakness.'  Such  promises  as  this  Zilpha  would  quote, 
were  she  here;  and  '  Jchovah-jireh  '  would  be  my  precious 
mother's  watchword  still.  Let  me  wear  it  as  a  talisman 
on  my  heart,  till  I  grow  strong  again  I" 


262  SILVERWOOD. 

The  next  week  would  bring  Christmas,  and  Edith  had 
never  remembered  the  season  to  pass  at  home,  without 
the  pleasant  and  gleefal  interchange  of  love-tokens.  Bat 
the  rich  English  edition  of  her  mother's  favorite  Cowper, 
which  she  had  fixed  on  for  her,  must  be  resigned  for  a 
less  expensive  one ;  the  choice  Leipsic  copy  of  G-reek 
Trasredies  that  Lawrence  would  have  liked  so  much,  was 
not  to  be  thought  of ;  Zilpha's  intaglio  signet-ring  would 
be  too  costly ;  the  presents  for  the  children  and  the 
servants — all  must  yield  to  the  pressure  of  necessity.  As 
she  walked  along  the  gay  streets  that  afternoon  in  search 
of  the  trifles  she  must  content  herself  with,  the  presence 
of  the  fashionable  thron,^  sickened  her  ;  their  smiling  faces 
mocked  her  ;  the  flashing  equipages  rolled  by,  and  their 
occupants  looked  complacently  out  of  the  windows,  as  if 
they  had  never  known  care  or  trial  ;  and  half- forgetful 
that  under  the  sable  and  the  ermine,  might  beat  hearts 
that  ached  as  hers  never  had,  she  walked  on,  thinking 
of  life's  varied  differences,  and  murmuring  ^'  why  ?" 

It  was  not  until  she  was  miles  on  her  journey  the  next 
day,  that  E  iith  bethought  her  of  looking  at  the  little 
pacquet  which  Mr.  Dubois  had  put  into  her  hand  at  part- 
ing, with  the  request  that  she  would  carry  it  to  her  mother. 
She  opened  the  unsealed  note,  and  found  it  contained 
bank  bills  to  the  amount  of  two  hundred  dollars — ''  a 
Christmas  present  from  an  old  friend." 


XXV. 

Xn'eab-iirti)-^ utter  ^Ijilasop'^ti. 

The  utter  failure  of  Edith's  mission  was  a  sore  trial  to 
Mrs.  Irvine  ;  but,  true  to  her  invariable  principle  of  action, 
she  tried  to  put  the  brightest  construction  she  could  on 
their  present  circumstances,  and  sought  to  lighten  Edith's 
manifest  despondency,  by  throwing  over  it  some  of  the 
sunshine  of  her  own  beautifnl  faith.  As  Edith  had  said 
she  would,  she  "  bound  for  a  token  upon  her  hand, 
and  for  frontlets  between  her  eyes,"  the  precious,  oft-re- 
peated assurance — "  the  Lord  will  provide  "  The  increas- 
ing difficulties  were  but  a  spur  to  her  energies  ;  and  though 
the  tear  would  occasionally  glisten,  as  she  looked  on  her 
children,  or  thought  of  the  beloved  exiles,  she  would  lift 
her  eyes  upward,  and  then  the  clear  shining  of  the  sun  of 
righteousness  left  all  the  heaven  of  her  hopes  spanned 
with  the  bow  of  promise. 

But  what  should  they  do?  where  look  for  the  means  of 
future  livelihood  ?     She  recognized  a  special  providence  in 


26i  SILVERWOOD. 

Mr.  Dubois'  timely  gift.  That  would,  at  least,  answer  for 
the  necessities  of  the  absent  ones,  should  they  need  fur- 
ther remittances,  and  thus  they  could  be  kept  in  ignorance 
of  the  true  state  of  the  home  finances.  Yet  often,  often, 
the  brave  cheerfulness  of  her  mother  was  to  Edith  more 
touching  than  floods  of  tears. 

"  Here  are  no  less  than  three  advertisements  for  gover- 
nesses," said  Edith  one  day,  as  she  looked  down  the  col- 
umns of  a  newspaper.  "Suppose  I  try  for  one  of  the 
posts:  Louisiana,  Alabama,  East-Florida — a  broad  range 
to  choose  from." 

*'  You  a  governess  I"  said  Mrs.  Irvine,  looking  up  from 
the  busily  plied  needle  "hundreds  of  miles  from  home, 
without  sympathies,  such  as  you  love,  or  even  common 
kindnesses,  if  we  are  to  believe  governess-life  to  be  what 
story-tellers  are  perhaps  too  fond  to  represent  it." 

"  But  scores  of  sensitive,  shrinking  girls  are  glad  enough 
to  help  themselves,  and  those  they  love,  in  this  way ;  and 
am  I  less  useful,  less  to  be  relied  on  than  other  daughters? 
Oh!  mother!" 

"  No,  my  dear  ;  neither — neither  ;  but  I've  been  turn- 
ing over  a  better  plan  yet,  in  my  mind — a  very  feasible 
one  I  think.  It  is  that  we  establish  a  family  school  here — 
at  home,  I  mean  ;  say  half-a-dozen  little  girls  to  begin 
with,  and  we  may  increase  the  number  as  circumstances 
seem  to  require  it.  This  will  accomplish  our  ends  better — 
will  obviate  the  necessity  for  a  separation,  and  it  will  be 


BREAD-AND-BUTTER  PHILOSOPHY.  265 

better  for  Eunice  and  Josepha,  than  if  tliey  were  educated 
wholly  apart  from  other  children.  We  can  arrange  it  so 
as  to  have  everything  ready  for  operation  before  Lawrence 
and  Zilpha  come  home." 

''  But  Lawrence  is  fastidious,  mother.  How  will  he  like 
to  have  the  privacy  of  home,  which  he  g-uards  as  a  sacred 
thing,  broken  in  upon  by  the  presence  of  strangers  ?  You 
know  this  home-exclusiveness  is  all  to  him  that  tempered 
light  is  to  an  artist's  studio." 

"  He  will  be  glad  to  choose  the  lesser  of  two  evils ;  for 
I  cannot,  I  cannot  consent  to  have  my  flock  scattered,  if 
there  is  any  way  to  prevent  it.  Better  open  the  fold  to 
strange  lambs.  They  shall  love  us,  and  live  as  we  do,  and 
exercise  no  'disagreeable  restrain  over  our  home  freedom — 
one  fold  still." 

"  'And  one  shepherd,'"  said  Edith,  fondly  caressing  the 
hand  that  lay  upon  her  shoulder.  "  Dear  mother  !  when 
I'm  near  you,  I  feel  strengthened,  you  have  such  an  art  at 
leveling  down  '  the  hill  Difficulty.'  " 

''  It  is  only  when  we  look  at  it  through  the  exaggerating 
atmosphere  of  doubt  and  discontent,  my  child,  that  it 
seems  so  high.  If  we  walk  evenly  onward,  we  will  find 
that  the  mountain  sinks  as  we  approach  it ;  or  if  it  does 
not,  we  find  a  path  leading  over  it,  which,  in  the  distance, 
we  could  not  see.     How  often  do  we  toil  over 

"  '  The  shadow  of  hills  across  a  level  thrown, 
And  pant  like  climbers  !' 


266  SILVERWOOD. 

fretting  ourselves  over  anticipated  troubles  that  never 
come,  and  digging  a  grave  to-day,  for  the  joys  we  believe 
will  perish  to-morrow ;  but  which,  when  the  morrow 
comes,  we  find  are  not  dead  for  our  ready-made  grave. 
Now  all  this  is  very  useless,  even  if  it  w^ere  not  unchris- 
tian. We  may  well  have  the  w^ords  applied  to  us  continu- 
ally—' Oh  !  ye  of  little  faith  !    Wherefore  do  ye  doubt  V  " 

It  was  accordingly  settled  that  efforts  should  be  immedi- 
ately made  to  procure  the  desired  pupils  for  a  summer 
term.  Letters  were  written  to  various  friends,  and  with 
less  exertion  than  they  expected,  six  little  girls,  about 
Eunice's  and  Josepha's  ages,  were  promised  for  the  embryo 
school. 

Sometimes  Edith  had  a  vague  idea  of  launching  upon 
the  literary  current,  a  venture  of  her  own — a  little  argosy 
freighted  with  love,  and  fancy,  and  hope,  that  might  bring 
her  in  return,  the  qin'd  pro  quo  so  much  needed.  Why 
should  she  not  coin  her  brain  into  dollars — be  "  a  bread- 
and-butter  philosopher,"  as  the  Germans  have  it  ?  Others, 
whom  she  believed  possessed  no  more  talents  than  her- 
self, had  made  successful  hits — why  might  not  she  ?  Bar- 
bara Butterworth  had  dashed  off  a  book  that  had  run 
through  thirty-five  editions,  and  had  she  not  as  much 
brains  as  Barbara  ?  People  ivould  read  novels.  The  race 
of  misses  just  emerged  from  school-rooms,  were  a  public 
of  themselves.  They  must  have  the  mental  opium  of 
sentimental  stories,  full  of  flash  and  fire — of  rapture  and 


BREAD-AND-BUTTER  PHILOSOPHY.  267 

anguish,  as  a  gentle   stimulant  to  their   dragging  hours. 

The  questionable  taste  would  be  gratified.  Why  should 
she  not  minister  to  it,  and  win  the  reward  ?  A  half  score 
of  fair  alliteratives  had  done  so  successfully.  A  pretty, 
flowery,  ferny  kind  of  literature,  the  sisterhood  of  wood- 
nymphs  had  gotten  up,  not  rich,  it  is  true,  with  the  prom- 
ise of  much  mature  fruit.  But  then,  we  do  not  ask  the 
rose  to  furnish  us  with  food  ;  it  has  another  mission  to 
fulfill ;  that  done,  we  demand  no  more  of  it. 

As  to  a  subject — why,  "  every  man's  life,"  as  Carlyle 
says,  "is  an  unwritten  epic."  She  had  mazes,  too,  coiled 
away  in  the  dim  recesses  of  her  brain  that  might  furnish 
threads  for  a  golden  tissue.  There  were  leaves  on  her 
life-tree,  which  that  wizard  worker,  Thought,  might,  with 
time  and  patience,  turn  into  a  silken-fair  fabric,  not 
wrought  for  strong  men's  use,  but  such  as  the  daintily- 
pleased  of  her  own  sex  might  love  to  clothe  their  fancies 
withal.  And  poetry — sho  had  no  pretentions  to  the  name 
of  a  poet — she  had  never  seen  two  rhymed  lines  of  her 
own  in  print ;  but  she  had  a  secret  pleasure  in  the  '^  gaya 
ciencia'^  "  as  the  old  Castilians  prettily  called  it.  Her 
port- folios  were  running  over  with  "  scoopings  from  Cas- 
taly."  Might  she  not  pour  them  out  as  an  offering,  with 
which  the  dear  Public  would  moisten  its  Silenus  lips  ?  Or 
had  its  deep  draughts  from  chalices,  fiery-red  with  passion, 
spicy  and  foaming  with  pleasure-sparkles,  deadened  its 
palate  to  the  mild  fragrance,  and  the  amber  flow  of  her 


268  SILVERWOOD. 

brain-vintage,  expressed  with  careful  hands  from  clusters 
gathered  in  the  garden,  of  home — not  bruised,  under  the 
world's  grinding  wheel,  till  the  seeds  gave  out  their  hid- 
den bitterness. 

But  poetry  would  bring  her  no  money,  (that  was  the 
thing  to  be  thought  of  now,)  and  pebbles  from  the  "  fount 
of  song"  were  valueless  on  the  Bourse — more  so  even 
than  the  handful  of  shells  offered  as  current  coin  by  the 
native  of  "  the  central,  flowery  land."  She  imagined 
what  the  answer  would  be,  should  she  attempt  the  barter 
— "  The  market  was  glutted  ;  that  sort  of  thing  was  en- 
tirely overstocked  ;  their  house  expected  to  lose  by  what 
had  already  been  undertaken  in  that  line,  and  if  authors 
escaped  without  detriment,  it  was  all  that  could  be  ex- 
pected. Only  here  and  there  a  new  work  had  a  decided 
run ;  and  then,  some  particular  circumstance,  more  than 
mere  force  of  merit,  was  the  line  that  helped  to  tow  it 
into  the  wished- for  port." 

But  those  chambers  must  be  furnished  for  the  expected 
pupils,  and  she  knew  her  mother  was  revolving  in  her 
mind,  how.  She  would  anticipate  her  if  possible.  A  few 
nights  of  secret  labor  would  put  into  marketable  form, 
some  of  the  results  of  former  days  of  study,  and  her  book- 
ish friend,  Miss  Warrington,  should  win  them   admission 

into  ''  — 's  Monthly."     And  so,  for  the  first — the  only 

time,  did  Edith  take  up  the  author's  pen.  The  Editor 
did    not.  begrudge  her  the  sum  he  had  given  her  for  the 


BREAD  AND-BUTTEE   PHILOSOPHY.  269 

two  classic  ''  Idyls/'  redolent  as  they  were  with  the  breath 
of  the  "  Formian  hills,"  after  he  heard  thein  attributed 
to  the  scholarly  hand  of  a  professed  literateur^  whatever 
he  may  have  thought  of  his  bargain  before. 

There  was  much  wonderment  on  the  part  of  Eunice 
and  Josepha,  as  one  evening,  a  few  weeks  later,  a  great 
covered  wagon,  with  its  four  horses  tinkling  their  bells, 
stopped  before  the  gate  at  Silverwood.  Edith  was  soon 
apprised  of  the  fact,  that  a  parcel  of  boxes  were  being 
unloaded.  Uncle  Felix  was  summoned  with  his  wheel- 
barrow. Homer  despatched  for  a  hatchet,  and  soon  the 
unbounded  curiosity  of  the  children  was  set  at  rest  by 
the  opening  of  the  boxes.  The  neat,  walnut  bedsteads 
were  screwed  together  :  the  simple  dressing-tables  wheeled 
to  their  places  ;  the  w^ash-stands  arranged^  and  then  the 
more  self-composed  Eunice  was  sent  to  call  her  mother. 
A  few  words  explained  all ;  and  vfhen  a  tear  fell  on 
Edith's  cheek,  as  Mrs.  Irvine  stooped  over  her,  to  kiss  her 
thanks,  she  owned  to  her  heart,  that  never  could  the  bay- 
wreath  about  her  brow  win  for  her  so  true  a  pleasure  or 
awaken  so  proud  a  thrill  as  she  that  moment  knew. 


i 


XXVI. 

Jtd.ks  from  tlje  Cropjts. 

Frequent  letters  had  been  received  from  Lawrence  and 
Zilpha,  which,  while  they  did  not  indicate  such  decided 
improvement  on  the  part  of  the  invalid  as  they  had  hoped, 
still  buoyed  them  up  with  the  assurance  that  at  least  no 
ground  had  been  lost.  They  had  left  Havana,  after  a  few 
weeks'  stay  there,  and  had  taken  up  their  abode  a  score  of 
miles  or  so  distant  from  the  capital,  with  an  English 
family,  who  sometimes  opened  their  house  as  a  hostelry 
for  sick  strangers. 

"  To  be  sure  our  Spanish  suffers  a  good  deal  in  conse- 
quence of  our  almost  entire  separation  from  all  who  speak 
it,-'  wrote  Zilpha;  "  but  then,  in  other  respects,  we  have 
what  far  more  than  compensates  for  the  loss,  in  the  home- 
like comfort  that  surrounis  us.  Every  morning  we  have 
a  charming  ride  on  our  little  ponies — tough,  wiry  creatures, 
of  a  remarkable,  Andaluslan  breed,  with  the  pleasantest 
possible  gait — who  trot  with  us  over  the  hills,  or  along 


272  SILVERWOOD. 

the  sea-beach,  where  we  sometimes  dismount  and  gather 
shells,  or  down  to  Don  Jose  Gronsalez's  sugar  plantation, 
where  we  stop  and  get  the  sweet  cane,  which  Lawrence 
likes  to  chew,  and  where  he  often  gets  weighed.  Dear 
fellow  !  how  pleased  he  is,  when  he  thinks  he  has  gained 
a  little ;  and  how  it  brightens  him  up  for  the  rest  of  the 
day,  making  him  think  our  afternoon  dippings  into  the 
interminable  Lope  de  Yega  quite  entertaining,  and 
giving  a  zest  to  all  his  talk  !  Every  afternoon  wo  have 
walks  through  the  growth  of  palms  and  bananas,  and 
I  often  take  little  sketches  of  views  that  please  Lawrence, 
— I  shall  have  quite  a  port-folio  of  them  to  show  you  all, — 
he  gathering  flowers  for  my  botanical  dissections,  while  I 
draw." 

"  Yesterday,"  ran  a  page  from  a  later  letter,  "  our  par- 
ty was  augmented  by  the  arrival  of  a  family  here  from 
New- York,  composed  of  a  Colonel  Fleming,  his  wife,  and 
son,  a  young  man  several  years  older,  I  should  think, 
than  Lawrence.  They  are  people  of  wealth,  apparently, 
from  their  surroundings.  The  father  has  retired  from  the 
army  lately  in  a  broken  state  of  health,  and  it  is  on  his 
account  they  are  here.  Mrs.  Fleming  is  a  quiet  woman, 
of  no  very  particular  force  of  character,  judging  from  the 
little  we  have  as  yet  seen  of  her.  Lawrence  seems  highly 
pleased  with  the  young  man  ;  indeed,  for  his  sake,  I  am 
quite  glad  they  have  come.  He  needs  more  companionship 
than  mine,  to  keep  him  fifom  dwelling  upon  the  daily 


LEAVES  FEOM  THE  THOPICS.  273 

phases  of  his  invalid  life.  There  is  a  little  air  of  exclusive- 
ness  about  these  Flemings.  Cousin  Bryant,  with  his  frank 
and  open  manners,  would  be  very  apt  to  say  they  ivere 
exclusive ;  but  Lawrence,  with  his  gi'aver,  quieter  mien, 
declares  there  is  just  the  admixture  of  ease  and  dignity 
which  he  likes. 

— "  We  have  closed  as  sw^eet  and  placid  a  Sabbath  as  I 
ever  passed," — it  was  Zilpha  who  wrote  again, — "darkened 
only  by  the  fear  that  our  dear  LawTence  is  not  gaining 
much  strensfth  in  this  enervatins^  climate.  I  wish  I  could 
see  him  improving  as  Colonel  Fleming  does  ;  but  God 
manages  all  things  in  the  best  w^ay.  Ah  I  to  keep  that 
truth  in  patient  remembrance  !  Mrs.  Fleming  and  her 
son  joined  us  in  our  Sabbath  occupations  after  breakfast. 
The  old  gentleman  don't  seem  to  have  any  sympathies  with 
them  on  these  points.  Mr.  Fleming  proffered  his  services 
as  reader,  and  gave,  with  the  same  sort  of  power  w^e  have 
often  thought  Cousin  Bryant  remarkable  for,  the  chapters 
Lawrence  asked  for,  such  as  the  sixty-third  of  Isaiah, 
the  nineteenth  Psalm,  the  twelfth  of  Hebrews.  He  had 
with  him  a  volume  of  Melville's  sermons,  and  as  he  read 
that  fine  one  on  '  the  humiliation  of  the  man,  Christ  Jesus,' 
Lawrence  would  rise  from  his  sofa,  and  w^alk  to  and  fro, 
in  a  tumult  of  responsive  feelings.  Sometimes  he  would 
pause  before  Mr.  Fleming,  interrupting  him  with  remarks 
and  comments  that  half  startled  me  wdth  their  lofty  sweet- 
ness and  faith.     As  we  sat  together  on  the  verandah  in 

12 


274  SILVERWOOD. 

the  evening,  looking  out  ovel*  the  level  sea,  beneath  which 
we  had  watched  the  sun  go  down  with  a  rare  splendor, 
they  made  me  sing  Sabbath  hymns  to  them  ;  and  though 
Lawrence  looked  weak  and  weary,  I  never  saw  his  face 
wear  a  serenity  so  beautiful.     Dear,  dear  Lawrence ! 

— "  He  is  bright  and  full  of  animation  to-clay,  and  talks 
confidently  of  being  able  to  go  home  when  the  Fleming's 
do,  which  will  be  within  a  few  weeks  at  most.  I  am  en- 
couraged to  hope  he  may.  These  kind  friends  are  un- 
wearying in  their  delicate  attentions  to  him.  The  old  Col- 
onel brings  him  in  fresh  fruits  gathered  in  his  rides,  and 
between  walks  and  talks,  and  the  sharing  of  his  books 
with  him,  Mr.  Fleming  cheats  the  days  of  their  tedious- 
ness.  They  have  many  scholarly  conversations,  and  just 
now  they  have  been  discussing  poetry  in  the  general,  and 
Mrs.  Browning  in  particular.  Shall  I  take  notes  for  you, 
Edith,  instead  of  finishing  up  these  sketches  I  outlined  this 
morning  ?  Mr.  Fleming  had  brought  Lawrence  the  works 
of  this  English  writer  some  days  ago,  and  he  has  since 
been  resjalino^  himself  on  them  with  a  relish  unusual  to 
him ;  for,  like  most  men,  he  is  not  fond,  you  know,  of  loo- 
merCs  books.  But  the  secret  lies,  I  suspect,  in  the  uncom- 
mon sympathy  he  finds  in  this  author,  with  his  own  clas- 
sic studies.  He  asked  Mr.  Fleming  to  re-read  to  him  a 
passage  he  pointed  out  in  the  preface  to  '  The  Seraphim,' 
as  having  struck  him  greatly  by  its  manly  strength  and 
glowing  poetic  thought.  Since  it  pleased  htm  so,  let  me 
copy  it  for  you. 


LEAVES   FROil  THE  TROPICS.  275 

^^  ^  Had  Aschylus  lived  after  the  incarnation  and  crucifix- 
ion of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  he  might  have  turned,  if  not 
in  moral  and  intellectual,  yet  in  poetic  faith,  from  the  sol- 
itude of  Caucasus,  to  the  deeper  desertness  of  that  crowded 
Jerusalem,  where  none  had  anj  pity — -from  the  '  faded  white 
flower'  of  the  Titanic  hrow,  to  the  '  withered  grass'  of  a 
heart  trampled  on  hy  its  own  beloved — from  the  glorying 
of  Him  who  gloried  that  He  could  not  die,  to  the  sublimer 
meekness  of  the  Taster  of  death  for  every  man — from  the 
taunt,  stung  into  being  by  torment,  to  His  more  awful  si- 
lence, when  the  agony  stood  dumb  before  the  love  !  And 
how,  ^  from  the  height  of  this  great  argument,'  the  scenery 
of  the  Prometheus  would  have  dwarfed  itself  even  in  the 
eyes  of  its  poet — how  the  fissures  of  his  rocks,  and  innu- 
merous  smiles  of  his  ocean  would  have  closed,  and  waned 
into  blankness,  and  his  demi-god  stood  confessed  so  human 
a  conception,  as  to  fall  below  the  aspiration  of  his  own 
humanity  I  He  would  have  turned  from  such,  to  the  rent 
rocks  and  darkened  sun — rent  and  darkened  by  a  sympa- 
thy thrilling  through  nature,  but  leaving  man's  heart 
untouched — to  the  multitudes  whose  victim  was  their 
Saviour — to  the  Victim  whose  sustaining  thought,  beneath 
an  unexampled  agony,  was  not  the  Titanic — 'I  can  7'e- 
veng-e  .'^  but  the  celestial — 'J  can  forgive  I'' ^ 

"  Then  he  turned  to  some  passages  against  which  he  had 
run  his  pencil,  in  '  The  Drama  of  Exile,'  and  asked  to 
have  them  over  again.     One  beginning 


276  •  SILVEKWOOD. 

"  'Eternity  stands  ahvaj's  fronting  God,' 

he  lingered  upon  as  uncommonly  grand,  and  the  words 
put  into  the  mouth  of  Christ,  as  he  appears  in  vision  before 
the  trembling  A-dam  and  Eve,  he  thought  not  unworthy  to 
have  made  a  part  of  our  greatest  epic  ;  but  both  he  and 
Mr.  Fleming  agreed  to  believe  Milton's  idea  of  our  sinning 
parents  after  the  Fall,  more  in  keeping  vi^ith  the  new  na- 
ture fresh  upon  them,  than  '  The  Drama's — ' 

"  'Hast  thou  strength,  beloved, 
To  look  behind  us  V 

*'  And  the  reply, — 

*'  'I  have  strength  to  look  upward — to  thy  face,' — breathe 
nothing  of  the  discordant  spirit  of  the  'Adam  severe' 
and  '  ungrateful  Eve '  of  the  '  Paradise  Lost.' 

"Lawrence  said  human  love  must  have  seemed  a  paltry 
compensation  tlien^  for  the  loss  of  the  divine  favor ;  and 
that  the  '  Drama  '  represented  Eve  as  too  much  consoled 
by  Adam's  tenderness.  The  choruses  he  did  not  like,  and 
he  wondered  that  even  the  author's  manifest  love  for  old 
Greek  art  had  betrayed  her  into  modeling  a  Christian  po- 
em thereon. 

"  He  said,  that,  after  all,  the  greatest  charm  of  these 
books  to  him  was  their  religious  element,  not  the  religion 
that  characterises  poets  in  general — a  mere  vague  belief  in 
God's  providence  or  goodness,  but  the  faith  of  the  gospel  of 


LEAVES   FROM  THE  TROPICS.  277 

Christ.  The  Atonement  was  the  key-note  to  her  song — ■ 
that,  begin  where  she  might,  or  take  whatever  path  she 
would,  she  made  all  terminate  at  Calvary. 

"  I  have  transcribe  J  this  extract,  and  given  you  just  a 
hint  or  two  of  Lawrence's  conversation,  that  you  may  see 
how  changed  he  is  in  one  respect — that  his  silence  on  the 
highest  of  themes,  on  which  we  know  he  has  long  felt  so 
much,  has  lately  been  quite  broken. 

—  "'I  have  just  been  looking  over  the  '  Phoedo,"  ho 
said,  this  mornins,  as  Mr.  Flemins^  came  into  our  sittinsr- 
room, — '  and  never  have  I  been  so  struck  before  with  the  ab- 
solute poverty  of  its  arguments.  Compare  this  best  that 
the  wisest  of  the  pagans  can  give  us,  with  the  logic  of 
Paul's  Epistle  to  the  Romans,  and  who  would  not  be  con- 
vinced by  the  disparity,  that  the  one  is  only  human,  the 
other  all  G-od-like  ?  I  used  to  doat  upon  '  Plato,  the  di- 
vine,' carrying  his  works  with  me  as  regularly  as  my  Bi- 
ble, as  you  see  ;  but  in  the  shadows  amidst  which  I  stand 
now,  how  bright,  how  consolatory  are  the  positive,  distinct 
utterances  of  the  gospel  of  God  I  How  contrasted  the  '  I 
know '  and  '  I  am  persuaded,^  of  the  Apostle  of  the  G-en- 
tiles,  with  the  *  noble  hazard'  of  Socrates  I' 

"  '  But  it  has  not  needed  that  you  should  stand  with  the 
gloom  of  sickness  about  you,'  I  said,  '  to  convince  you 
of  anything  Paul  teaches.' 

^'  •  Oh,  no  I  not  to  convince  me,  but  to  fill  me  with  such  an 
intense  realization  of  the  sweetness  and    adaptedness  of 


278  SILVEKWOOD. 

these  truths  to  our  human  cravings,  such  as  I  never  knew 
in  health.' 

"Mr.  Fleming  said  he  thought  one  of  the  compensations 
of  sickness  was  the  singular  power  it  had  of  dissolving  the 
earthly  vapors  that  form  a  distorting  medium  about  the 
soul,  thus  giving  it  a  purified  atmosphere,  in  which  things 
appear  as  they  really  are.  He  alluded  to  a  dangerous  fit  of 
illness  he  had  had,  when  a  student  at  Bonn,  in  Germany, 
and  dated  from  that  time  all  his  clearer  views  of  life  and 
his  present  settled  faith. 

— "  I  had  somewhat  of  an  alarm  to-day,  occasioned  Ly 
Lawrence's  fainting  while  we  were  out  riding  this  morning. 
I  succeeded  in  assisting  him  from  his  pony,  and  laid  him 
down  on  the  grass;  hut  when  I  saw  him  quite  swoon  away, 
I  felt  thankful  it  was  I,  instead  of  Edith,  who  was  with 
him — she  would  have  been  so  terrified.  I  folded  some 
plantain  leaves  into  a  cup,  and  ran  to  a  little  stream  I  had 
remembered  our  crossing  a  few  minutes  before.  The 
water  soon  revived  him  ;  but  as  he  lay  there,  with  his  pale 
face  turned  up  to  the  sky,  the  sudden  thought  came — 
what  if  he  ivere  dead  !  I  became  frightened,  and  could 
only  sob  ;  but  I  turned  the  sob  into  a  prayer,  and  soon  my 
fear  was  dispelled.  Dear  Lawrence  was  opening  his  eyes 
again,  as  I  sat  on  the  ground  with  his  head  on  my  knee, 
when  I  heard  a  horse's  hoofs  behind  us.  I  felt  so  thankful 
that  I  was  to  have  the  presence  and  aid  even  of  one  of  the 
natives  ;  but  imagine  how  grateful  and  relieved  1  was,  to 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  TKOPICS.  279 

find,  on  looking  round,  that  it  ^yas  Mr.  Fleming.  He 
thought,  as  he  watched  us  ride  away,  that  Lawrence  looked 
exhausted,  and  so  he  made  up  his  mind  to  follow  us. 
You  see,  dear  mother,  how  good  Gfod  is — providing  for  us 
in  all  our  emergencies. 

— "  It  is  night  now,  and  Lawrence  is  sleeping  most  peace- 
fully. He  has  talked  even  less  than  his  custom,  to-day ; 
hut  I  will  not,  must  not  hide  from  you,  that  there  is  a 
meaning  calmness  ahout  his  eyes,  his  words,  his  move- 
ments, that  affects  me  strangely.  G-od  grant  it  may  not 
be  the  serene  tranquillity  that  sometimes  gathers  over  the 
sky  at  the  setting  of  the  sun !" 


XXVII. 


lalorewe  at  foiue. 


I 


There  was  grief  in  each  of  their  hearts,  which  neither 
Mrs.  -Irvine  nor  Edith  spoke  of  to  one  another  when  the 
last  letters  from  Cuba  were  read.  The  hope  that  had  been 
o-ildinor  the  cloud  with  its  sfolden  frinoes,  was  sinking^  be- 
neath  a  horizon  of  gathering  gloom.  With  her  ready  and 
ingenious  invention,  Mrs.  Irvine  had  that  very  day  been 
fitting  up  an  easy  chair  for  Lawrence.  To  his  nice  eye, 
she  said,  the  velvet,  so  scorched  and  damaged  by  the  mis- 
haps of  the  fire,  would  be  unsightly ;  and  so  she  made  it 
give  way  to  some  bright,  fresh  damask  ;  and  at  the  will- 
insf  task  she  was  workinsf,  when  Uncle  Felix  had  brouo^ht 
the  packet.  It  contained  a  short  letter  from  Lawrence 
himself.  There  was  nothing  mournful  in  it — rather  a 
glad  thankfulness  that  they  would,  he  hoped,  be  so  soon 
all  together  again  ;  but  it  closed  very  abruptly,  and  as  his 
mother  laid  it  down,  there  was  a  pressure  of  her  lips  that 
betokened  inward  pain.     Josepha  picked  it  up. 

12* 


282  SILVERWOOD. 

""Why  look,  Edith,  how  crooked  the  lines  are,  and  how 
funny  brother  Lawrie  has  made  his  letters.  That's  just 
the  trembly  way  /  write  when  Eunice   shakes  the  table." 

''Hush-sh!"  said  Edith,  under  her  breath;  and  the 
child  wondered,  as  she  looked  up,  what  she  had  done  to  fill 
her  sister's  eyes  with  tears.  Mrs.  Irvine  left  the  room 
quickly.  She  was  long  gone  ;  and  when  she  came  back, 
the  children  scrutinized  her  closely,  and  though  they  saw 
traces  of  weeping,  she  was  calm  then,  and  they  thought 
that  whatever  the  sorrow  was,  it  had  passed  away. 

"  And  wont  you  finish  the  chair,  mother  ?"  asked 
Eunice,  as  she  was  bidden  to  gather  up  the  things  scattered 
about,  while  Josepha  was  sent  to  tell  Daphne  to  carry  it 
into  another  room.  ''  Only  the  damask  to  fasten  along 
the  top,  and  here  are  the  little  tacks  all  ready." 

But  the  question  was  put  aside  with,  "  Not  to-night, 
my  dear  ;  no,  not  to-night." 

April,  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  her  hands  over- 
running with  wet  violets,  had  come.  The  aspens  around 
Silverwood  were  tufted  all  over  with  their  delicate  leaves ; 
the  peach  trees  were  blushing  under  the  gaze  of  the  warm 
sun,  and  the  sweet-brier  was  making  the  old  porch  fra- 
grant. The  cleared  spots  high  up  the  sides  of  the  grand 
old  mountain  beyond,  were  beginning  to  look  fresh,  and 
the  forests  were  brightening  every  day  with  the  tender 
green  of  the  feathery  leaves.  Uncle  Felix  was  busy  dig- 
ging the  garden,   and  the  children,  who  felt  oppressed  by 


LAWREN'CE  AT  HOME.  283 

a  weight  upon  them  when  within  doors,  which  they  could 
not  understand,  were  glad  to  employ  their  hours,  when  re- 
leased from  books,  in  assorting  seeds  and  watching  the 
planting  of  them,  and  in  coaxing  the  old  man  to  "hurry 
and  have  the  beds  and  walks  all  trim  by  the  time  brother 
and  sister  would  come  home." 

"  'Pears  to  me.  Miss  Josey,  dat  ole  mist'ess  and  Miss 
Edith  ain't  areckonin'  much  on  Mas'  Lawrie  comin'  back, 
nohow." 

Josepha,  in  her  surprise,  scattered  the  bulbs  she  was 
waiting  on  him  to  plant,  and  asked  what  he  meant. 

"  La,  Miss  Josey,  you're  alive  all  over  ;  and  how'd  ever 
you  suspicion  anything  about  dyin'  ?  Now,  honey,  I  didn't 
mean  to  say  no  thin'  to  make  you  cry  I — mighty  sorry  ! 
But  look  yer.  Miss  .Josey  ;  you  see  I'sc  made  a  deep  hole, 
and  drapt  in  dat  sort  o'  Hater  wot  you  say  bears  sich  a 
gran'  posy — " 

"  That's  an  elegant  scarlet  dahlia.  Plant  it  carefully, 
for  sister  thinks  so  much  of  it ;"  and  in  her  interest  to 
have  the  bulb  rightly  set,  the  child  forgot  the  tear  not  yet 
dry  on  her  cheek. 

"  AVell,  you  see  it's  nothin'  better  nor  a  tater  now,  any- 
how ;  but  wait  a  chance.  Ole  Mas'r  above,  yonder,  can 
make  it  come  up  a  mighty  different  sort  o'  thing  from 
what  I'se  done  planted;  and  jes'  so  he  do  wid  de  body. 
When  Mas'  Lawrie  dies,  and  you  dies,  and  me  dies,  he's 
gwine  to  make  us  all  spring  up  a  sight  more  beautifuller 


284  SILVERWOOD. 

nor  yer  fine  posies,  bein'  if  we  has  de  true  life  in  ns  when 
we's  done  covered  up  ;  for  if  dis  root  hadn't  life  in  it  now, 
I'se  like  to  know  where  yer  posies  'ud  he  next  summer  T' 

"  Yes,  I  understand;  you  mean  if  we  aren't  good  when 
we  die ;"  but  Josepha  did  not  want  to  hear  particularly 
about  being  "good"  just  then.  It  made  her  feel  gloomy,  or 
she  fancied  it  ought  to  have  that  effect;  and  between  her- 
self and  gloom,  there  was  no  more  affinity  than  between 
sunshine  and  shadow;  so  she  escaped  from  Uncle  Felix's 
sermon  with  the  dahlia-bulb  text,  and  went  to  aid  Eunice 
in  making  drills  for  her  flower-seeds. 

Days  came  and  went  mournfully — heavily  for  the  in- 
mates of  Silverwood.  For  Edith,  there  was  nothing  but 
mocking  brightness  in  the  fitful  flashes  of  .the  April  sun — 
nothing  but  a  taunting  calm  in  its  setting  splendors,  as  it 
sank  pavillioned  in  clouds  behind  the  straight  top  of 
Castlehead.  She  could  only  think  of  the  brilliant  hopes 
quenched  in  tears — of  the  beautiful  sun  that  might  "  go 
down  at  noon." 

Oh  I  that  long  agony  of  suspense,  during  which  no  let- 
ters came ; — and  the  tossed  spirit  wandered  up  and  down  in 
alternating  lulls  and  storms  of  doubt — fear — hope  and 
despair  I  The  worst  our  imaginations  summon  up,  is,  per- 
haps, easier  borne  than  this  racking  tumult  of  contending 
passions.  Better  that  hope  should  be  shipwrecked  at 
once,  than  be  hurled  back  and  forth  over  a  sea  of  distract- 
ing emotions,    sometimes  on  the  crest  of  a  wave,  from 


LAWRENCE   AT  HOME.  285 

which  the  near  headland  can  be  seen,  then  plunging  down, 
down,  pitilessly  into  the  abysmal  trough;  then  within 
frantic  reach  of  a  floating  spar;  then  dashed,  bleeding 
and  senseless,  against  the  sharp  rocks  of  despair  ! 

These  were  Edith's  experiences  during  the  days  that 
Uncle  Felix  returned  from  the  village  without  letters. 
They  must  have  been  her  mother's,  too  ;  but  if  they  were, 
she  gave  no  outward  sign  of  them,  but  continued  to  keep 
her  head  and  hands  restlessly  busy.  When  bending  over 
her  needle,  she  would  employ  Eunice  to  read  some  favor- 
ite devotional  volume  that  might  prove  an  anchor  to 
thoughts  that  could  not  be  other  than  tempest-tossed ;  and 
when  the  rapid  lingers  would  rest,  and  the  quick  step  that 
could  be  heard  here  and  there  about  the  house,  as  she 
held  herself  firmly  to  the  performance  of  every  necessary 
duty,  would  be  still,  as  she  sat  down  in  her  accustomed 
seat,  with  the  basket  of  keys  placed  on  the  carpet  beside 
her,  she  yet  permitted  no  interval  for  wearying  medita- 
tion ;  and  Edith  would  sit  withdrawn,  regarding  her  with 
silent  amazement,  as  with  a  brow  that  gave  no  indication 
of  the  inward  disquiet,  except  the  absence  of  the  invariable 
sunlight  from  it,  she  pored  absorbedly  over  some  holy  page. 

The  sun  had  long  faded  from  the  western  sky,  not 
even  the  glow  lingered  around  the  place  of  his  setting, 
and  Edith  sat  on  the  porch  straining  her  eyes  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  road  by  which  Uncle  Felix  was  to  return 
from  Milburne.    She  heard  at  length  the  horse's  hoofs,  and 


286  SILYERWOOD. 

in  a  tumult  of  anxiety,  which,  yet,  she  felt  she  had  scarce 
strength  to  bear  the  breaking  of,  she  rose  to  go  into  the 
house,  to  get  away,  if  possible,  from  the  news  «he  had 
been  so  impatient  to  have  hastened.  Then  again,  with  a 
determination  to  master  her  feelings,  she  turned  and  walked 
resolutely  down  the  gravel  path  to  the  gate.  It  was  so 
dark  that  the  outlines  of  the  horse  were  just  discernible. 
She  had  only  voice  to  ask — "  x\ny  letters.  Uncle  Felix  ?" 
when  she  felt  her  hand  grasped  by,  she  knew  not  whom ; 
and  before  her  scattered  senses  could  be  recalled,  she  found 
herself  in  the  parlor,  in  the  midst  of  the  startled  group, 
with  Bryant  Woodruff  supj)orting  her. 

^'  Lawrence — Zilpha  !"  were  the  words  all  uttered  with 
one  eager  breath.  Bryant  folded  his  arm  round  Mrs.  Ir- 
vine, and  drew  her  to  the  sofa,  where  he  had  seated  Edith. 
For  some  moments  no  one  spoke — no  one  had  voice  for  a 
question;  even  the  children  pressed  closer  to  their  moth- 
er's side,  with  a  vague  feeling  of  terror.  "  Tlie  Lord  gave 
— the  Lord  hath  taken  away;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the 
LordV  were  the  first  sounds  that  broke  upon  the  fearful 
stillness  of  the  room.  It  was  enough — they  knew  it  all  I 
Mrs,  Irvine  clasped  her  hands  together  with  a  convulsive 
gesture,  and  a  deadly  paleness  overspread  her  face,  but 
she  uttered  no  word.  The  power  of  speech  was  gone. 
Rigid,  motionless,  marble-like,  she  sat  erect,  shedding  no 
tears,  giving  forth  no  wail.  The  purple  life  seemed  as  if 
congealed,  so  that  the  heart,  though  broken,  was  not  seen 
to  bleed. 


LAWRENCE  AT  HOME.  287 

A  low,  hopeless  moan  of  anguish  escaped  Edith's  lips, 
and  she  sank  back,  mercifully  bereft  for  the  present  of  all 
consciousness — deaf  alike  to  the  piteous  shrieks  of  the 
children  and  the  unrestrained  cries  of  the  servants,  who, 
by  this  time,  had  assembled  to  learn  the  tidings.  In  their 
fright,  they  imagined  that  their  young  mistress,  too,  was 
dead ;  and  their  lamentations  rang  through  the  long  pas- 
sage, as  they  hurried  to  and  fro  for  restoratives.  But 
Bryant  would  let  them  use  none.  He  would  not  rouse  the 
spirit  that  had  succumbed  under  the  blow,  to  the  full  sense 
of  the  truth  it  could  not  bear. 

But  all  the  piercing  cries,  and  the  hastening  steps,  and 
the  dusky  crowd  pressing  around  the  pale  form  that  lay 
on  the  sofa,  where  she  still  sat  unbending  and  moveless, 
failed  to  attract  the  stony  gaze  of  Mrs.  Irvine.  Bryant 
became  alarmed  ;  he  unclasped  her  tightened  hands  ;  he 
kneeled  at  her  side,  repeating  one  scripture  promise  after 
another  ;  he  followed  the  freed,  glorified  spirit  within  the 
gates  of  the  celestial  city ;  he  spoke  of  its  unutterable 
blessedness — of  the  angels'  joy  over  it,  gathered,  as  it  was 
now,  safe  home — of  the  Saviour  greeting  it  with  his  look  of 
divine  love,  as  he  recognized  in  it  a  fruit  of  "  the  travail 
of  his  soul"  and  "was  satisfied" — till  at  lensfth  the  stiffened 
muscles  began  to  relax ;  the  set  eye-lids  drooped ;  the  un- 
locked tears  streamed,  and  the  quivering  lips  murmured — 
"  Thank  Grod  I  thank  G-od  I— my  beloved  is  in  glory  !  but 
— the  precious  clayV' 


288  SILVERWOOD. 

^^  My  brother  I  my  brother  P^  With  what  a  wailing 
iteration  that  made  Bryant  shudder,  did  Edith's  cry  break 
in  amidst  the  sobbings !  The  one  thought  absorbed  all 
her  soul — ''^  Laivrence  deadV  It  could  hold  no  more. 
There  was  bitterness  enough  there  to  dash  the  cup  of 
consolation  which  Bryant  tried  to  press  to  her  pallid  lips. 
He  attempted  to  soothe  her  with  the  precious  truths — never 
felt  so  precious  as  when  we  are  sinking  in  the  deep  waters 
— with  which  he  had  succeeded  in  starting  the  fountain 
of  her  mother's  heart,  but  the  agony  on  that  contracted 
brow — the  unspeakable  plaintivcness  of  that  thrilling  tone 
with  which  she  would  turn  pleadingly  to  him — "  dead — 
Laivrence  dead!''' — was  too  much  even  for  his  strong  self- 
control.  He  tried  the  consolation  of  prayer,  and  the  Com- 
forter," in  some  measure,  descended,  in  answer  to  his 
touching,  tearful  appeal  for  peace. 

Oh  !  the  intense,  the  immeasurable  anguish  of  trying 
to  bring  home  to  the  aching  soul  the  idea  of  death  as 
connected  with  our  beloved  !  We  link  the  terrible  word 
with  the  precious  name — ^^  dead — dead  1^"^ — but  fail  to 
compass  a  tithe  of  its  fearfalness.  We  repeat  and  repeat 
it,  as  though  we  thought  thus  to  wear  the  conception  into 
our  unwilling  belief,  but  it  remains  only  a  drear  sound. 

"  What  is — to  die  ? 
We  cannot  hold  the  meaning,  more  than  can 
An  oak's  arm  clasp  the  wind." 


LAWRENCE  AT  HOME.  289 

"We  sleep,  we  wake,  still  saying— " dead  !  dead!"  The 
sun  rises  just  as  it  did  ;  it  sets  the  same  ;  those  about  us 
begin  to  talk  as  of  old,  even  to  smile  again  ;  but  we  move 
on  through  the  chilling  gloom  as  in  a  grim,  oppressive 
dream.  We  will  surely  awake  bye-and-bye.  This  night- 
mare of  the  soul  will  pass  away.  We  listen,  we  long,  we 
watch,  we  wait;  but  there  is  "no  further  change."  We 
have  comprehended  as  much  of  the  mystery  as  our  finite 
natures  can  take  in,  while  we  walk  on,  still  incredulously 
murmuring—"  (ie^^f//  dead!''' 


IIVIII. 

ti|e  Coming  JatL 

"  It  was  Sabbath  evening.  I  had  sat  all  day  at  his  so- 
fa, fanning  him,  as  he  lay  in  a  half-dreaming  state,  from 
\yhich  he  occasionally  roused  himself,  and  talked  as  Bun- 
yan's  Pilgrim  talked  when  he  drew  near  to  the  heavenly 
city.  The  '  shining  ones '  seemed  to  encompass  him  as 
they  did  '  Christian,'  and  the  glory  of  the  open  gates 
streamed  aromid  him,  '  which,  when  I  saw,  I  wished  my- 
self, too,  among  them  ! '  I  was  not  alone.  Our  friends, 
the  Flemings,  were  watchers  with  m.e.  But  never  shall  I 
forget  the  tender,  wistful  look  with  which  my  precious 
brother  caught  my  hands  as  I  was  bending  over  him,  ar- 
ranging his  cushions.  '  Oh  !  my  mother  !  if  she  were  only 
here,  it  would  be  easier,  I  think,  to  go  I '  I  whispered  the 
words — '  As  one  whom  his  mother  comforteth,  so  will  I 
comfort  you,  and  you  shall  be  comforted  !' 

"  '  How  sweet !  how  infinitely  compassionate  !'  he  mur- 
mured, with  closed  eyes.  '  Yet  I  have  such  an  unspeaka- 
ble longing  to  see  her  dear  face  once  more !    Ah  !  my  sister  ! 


292  SILVERWOOD. 

your  love  is  very  sweet  to  me  ;  but  what  human  love  can 
be  like  a  mother's  I ' 

'' '  Think  then,'  I  said,  '  vv^hat  Jesus'  must  be.  '  Yea, 
a  mother  may  forget,  yet  will  not  L' ' 

"'  I  am  content!'  he  sighed.  'When  I  see  her  face 
next,  it  will  have  the  radiance  of  heaven  on  it — that  is 
better.' 

''  Not  long  after,  I  heard  a  low  sound.  I  bent  down 
my  ear,  and  caught  the  words — '  Mother — Zilpha — Edith 
— Eunice — Sepha  ;  yes,  all — all  will  come  I' 

"He  brightened  a  little,  and  told  me  he  wanted  to  have 
a  long  talk  with  me,  but  that  he  was  weary  and  would 
sleep  first.  As  we  were  silently  watching  him,  I  saw  his 
lips  move.  ^  Mother — heaven — Jesus  ! '  Then  there  was 
a  strange  stillness.  '  Dearest  Lawrence,'  I  said,  laying 
my  hand  on  his  damp  forehead,  '  tell  me  how  precious  you 
feel  Him  to  be.'  It  lay  there  while  I  waited  for  a  reply.  I 
kissed  his  cheek  to  rouse  him,  but  he  did  not  move.  Mr. 
Fleming  whispered — '  He  is  answering  that  question  in 
heaven ! — ' 

— "  The  mother  and  sisters  of  my  departed  friend  will 
forgive  the  intrusion  of  a  stranger  into  their  grief ;  but  the 
bereaved  sufferer,  who  has  this  evening  had  strength 
granted  her  to  follow  the  beloved  clay  to  its  resting-place 
beneath  the  tropic  shade  of  a  rural  cemetery,  has  yielded 
now  to  the  pressure  of  the  sorrow  that  did  not  come  in  its 
intensity,  till  all  was  over.     She  has  been  able  to  lean 


THE   COMIXG  BACE.  293 

vvith  unquestioning  submission  upon  the  arm  of  the  Re- 
deemer, as  I  have  seen  none  other  do  in  ciicumstances  of 
such  sore  bereavement. 

"  The  late  twiUght  was  closing  around  us,  as  we  laid  the 
head  of  your  precious  one  down  to  rest  in  the  sleep  which 
God  '  giv^eth  His  beloved.'  These  were  the  words  I  heard 
his  sister  utter,  as  we  turned  avray  from  the  sacred  spot. 
May  the  pitying  Father,  who  does  not  willingly  afflict, 
comfort  her  and  you,  each  and  all !  Do  not  allow  the 
thought  of  her  desolation  too  afflict  you  too  much.  All 
that  Christian  sympathy  can  do,  on  my  mother's  behalf 
and  mine,  shall  be  done  to  make  her  feel  that  her  sorrow 
is  ours,  as  well,  for  we  had  both  become  singularly  inter- 
ested in  the  lovely  and  beloved  one  who  is  gone.  Such  a 
transparent  purity  of  soul,  whose  inmost  workings  might 
have  been  shown  to  the  world  without  the  dread  that 
anything  would  be  found  there  that  would  skulk  from 
such  an  unveiling,  I  have  never  known.  He  was  a  '  be- 
loved John.' 

"  Before  we  leave  the  Island,  we  will  have  a  stone 
placed  above  him,  so  that  you  shall  not  have  the  mournful 
thought  to  dwell  upon — that  he  lies  in  an  unmarked  grave ; 
and,  with  Miss  Irvine's  permission,  there  shall  be  cut  upon 
it  the  words  that  fell  from  her  lips  as  she  saw  them  smooth 
his  green  pillow — 

"  *  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep,' 


294  SILVEIRWOOD. 

'•  AVe  expect  to  sail  within  a  week,  and  I  beg  you  will 
allow  yourselves  no  uneasiness,  as  I  shall  make  it  my  care 
and  privilege,  as  a  Christian  friend  and  brother,  to  conduct 
Miss  Irvine  home  to  you,  as  I  trust,  in  safety. 

'^  Yours  in  like  precious  faith  and  sympathy, 

"  Robert  Fleming." 

Such  was  the  tenor  of  the  letters  of  which  Bryant  was 
the  bearer.  Zilpha  had  enclosed  them  to  him,  with  the 
request  that  he  would  himself  be  the  bearer  of  the  sorrow- 
ful tidings,  and  help  to  sustain  them  in  their  lonely  grief. 
True  to  her  self- forgetful  nature,  she,  although  alone  on  a 
foreign  shore,  or  at  least  with  none  but  those  who  had  so 
recently  been  entire  strangers  to  her,  bethought  herself  of 
making  a  provision  that  should,  if  possible,  soften  the  vio- 
lence of  the  blow  to  the  circle  at  home. 

As  they  all  sat  together,  a  week  later,  still  heavy  and 
oppressed  with  sorrow,  a  carriage  was  heard  at  the  gate, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Zilpha  and  Mr.  Fleming  stood  among 
them.  Wliat  a  fresh  opening  of  the  agonizing  wounds  ! 
For  the  first  time  they  seemed  to  realize  the  truth  after 
which  they  had  been  ineffectually  grasping.  "Where  was 
he  who  had  been  at  her  side  when  they  had  seen  her  last? 
Yet,  in  clasping  her  to  their  bosoms,  they  felt  as  if  brought 
nearer  to  the  dear  lost  one — they  felt  that  through  her  eyes 
they  looked  upon  the  far-away,  forsaken,  island-grave. 
Uncle  Felix  deposited  the  ownerless  trunk  in  the  passage, 


THE   COMING  BACK.  295 

filled  with  the  garments  that  had  been  exchanged  for  the 
robes  of  immortality  ;  and  the  old  man's  tears  fell  fast, 
while  Josepha,  sitting  down  upon  it,  buried  her  face  in 
her  apron,  and  sobbed  aloud. 

Zilpha  was  the  first  to  grow  calm  ;  and  as,  after  a  while, 
she  went  over  with  touching  detail  the  story  of  his  last 
days  on  earth,  they  all  felt  the  influence  of  the  meek  and 
holy  resignation  that  breathed  through  all  her  words  ;  and 
in  listening  to  the  low  ripple  of  her  voice,  broken,  often- 
times, by  tearful  pauses,  they  owned  in  their  hearts  that 
"  an  angel  spake." 

For  some  days  the  two  gentlemen  lingered  with  them, 
but  duties  called  each  away,  and  they  departed,  leaving 
the  current  of  life  so  fearfully  swollen  by  the  storm  of 
affliction  that  had  swept  over  them,  to  fall  back  in  some 
degree  into  its  old  channel.  Externally,  the  quiet  of 
spirit  returned  to  Mrs.  Irvine.  She  laid  away  as  sacred 
relics — made  doubly  so  by  her  baptism  of  tears — every- 
thing that  Lawrence's  touch  had  consecrated,  kissing  the 
books  he  had  used  and  the  clothes  he  had  worn,  and  wind- 
ing up  the  watch  that  had  been  last  turned  by  the  dear, 
silent  fingers,  while  she  dimmed  its  face  with  her  fast-fall- 
ing drops.  Edith  shunned  the  sight  of  every  memento 
that  could  renew  her  anguish.  She  spiritualized  the  loss 
as  far  as  possible,  allowing  no  object  of  sense  to  come 
before  her  that  might  impress  her  with  a  tangible  realiza- 
tion  of  it,  thus  unwisely   keeping  her  mind  with  that 


296  SILVEKWOOD. 

certain  shadow  of  doubt  upon  it,  which  the  resolute  fac- 
ing of  all  these  memories  would  have  dispelled  into  some- 
thins^  softer  than  what  her  imagination  made  her  suffer. 

The  rose-tree,  which  has  been  beaten  to  the  ground  by 
the  driving  rain,  and  left  to  lie  there  in  its  desolation,  even 
when  raised  again,  does  not  turn  at  once  to  the  sun,  as  it 
had  turned  before,  but  in  time  it  yields  to  the  genial 
influences  about  it.  Grradually  it  betakes  itself  to  the 
support  of  the  trellis,  to  which  it  has  been  bound,  and  the 
shining  side  of  its  leaves  are  won  round  again  to  the 
kindly  light  of  day. 

"  Even  the  tombs  where  love  repines, 
Lonely  tenements  of  tears, 
Learn  to  look  like  happy  shrines, 
Through  the  golden  mists  of  years. 

"  Sorrows  that  are  sorrows  still, 
Lose  the  bitter  taste  of  woe  ; 
Nothing's  altogether  ill 
In  the  griefs  of  long-ago  !" 

Grod  be  evermore  blessed  that  so  it  is  ! — that  in  pity  to 
His  weak  and  bleeding-hearted  ones.  He  staunches  the 
wounds  His  own  hands  have  made,  by  healing  balm  gath- 
ered from  the  Tree  of  Life  I 

And  so,  as  the  Spring-days  went  by,  came  it  to  be  the 
experience  of  the  bruised  hearts  at  Silverwood.  Mrs. 
G-rantley,  who  paid  them  a  visit  of  condolence,  went  away, 
saying  to  her  sister,  whose  eyes  were  moist  with  sympathy, 


THE  COMING  BACK.  297 

that  "  they  bore  it  with  beautiful  calmness — that  Zilpha 
looked  as  passionless  as  one  of  Canova's  sculptures,"  and 
Edith  reminded,  in  her  statuesque  paleness,  of  a  figure  in 
one  of  the  frescoes  in  the  Sistine  chapel." 

Miss  Burton  said,  with  a  quick  twinkling  of  her  eye- 
lids, that  "  they  rather  reminded  her  of  the  sisters  of 
Bethany,  as  they  sank  subdued,  but  suffering  still,  at  the 
feet  of  Him  w^ho  had  '  loved  Lazarus.'  " 


XXIX. 


%  iribd. 


How  impertinent  seem  the  intrusions  of  the  outer  world, 
when  our  souls  are  all  consecrated  by  "  the  solemn  digni- 
ties of  grief !"     How  we  sicken  and  turn  away  when  its 
inexorable  demands  are  thrust  upon  us,  and  feel  that  we 
are  wronged  in  not  being  permitted  to  sit  dumbly  down 
beside  our  dead  sorrow,  and  hug  it  to  our  bosoms  !     And 
when  those  who  love  us,  and  better  know  what  is  fitting 
for  us,  than  in  our  unreasoning  and  absorbed  condition, 
we  can  know  for  ourselves — when  these  come  in  between 
us  and  it,  and  with  gentle  violence   separate  us  from  it, 
and  heap  smooth  and  green  the  mound  of  memory  for  us, 
and  plant  the  everlasting  flowers  of  hope  there,  we  are  in- 
clined to  think  them  almost  unfeeling — to  look  upon  them 
as  the  child  does  on  those  who  carry  away  the  cofl[ined 
form  of    the  darling  mother,  and  cover  it  up  under  the 
church-yard  sod,  heedless  of  the  outstretched  arms  that 
would  have  clung  to  it  still ! 


800  SiLtERWOOD, 

"With  some  such  feelings  as  these  did  the  inmates  of  Sil-* 
verwood  regard  the  necessities  that  compelled  them  to 
arouse  from  their  seducing  apathy,  and  apply  themselves 
to  the  business  of  life  again. 

Sorrow  does  not  long  darken  away  the  morning  light 
from  the  eyes  of  childhood  ;  and  though   Eunice's   face 
wore  a  softened  expression  that  made  it  seem  quieter  than 
usual,  she  could  not  understand  the  freqaent  failure  of  her 
mother's  attempted  cheerfulness — a  cheerfulness  that,  like 
a  watery  sunshine,  had  in  it  more  than  even  the  sadness 
of  tears.     As  to  Josepha,  she  liked  not  the  pervading  pen- 
siveness  of  the  house,  and  under  the  open  sky,  child-like, 
she  sought  to  lose  the  remembrance  of  the  grief  that  at 
times,  though  she  would  not  speak  of  it  even  to  Eunice, 
would  swell  her  little  heart.     The  arrival,  too,  of  the  addi- 
tional companions,  was  a  source  of  great  gratification  to 
the    children.     Their  cousins,  Sophy  and    Maria    Irvine, 
were  as  merry-tempered  and  socially -disposed  as  they  could 
desire.     Lucy  Fletcher  was  thoughtful  and   quiet,  older 
than  Eunice,  even  more  given  to  withdrawn  and  silent 
readings,  and  withal,  a  little  suspected  of  home -sickness 
by   Josepha,   a  thing  she   could   hardly   forgive.     Fanny 
Richards  she  judged  to  be  somewhat  grum  and  hard   to 
please — an  opinion,  however,  which  she  prudently  confided 
to  nobody  but  Uncle  Felix,  who  attributed  it  to  her  "  feelin' 
kind  o'  strange  like."     Virginia    Browne  and  Sally  Ed- 
wards were  both  pleasant  enough  in  their  way — the  latter 


A    BRIDAL,  801 

something  of  a  mischief ;  but  upon  the  whole,  Eunice  and 
Josepha,  after  gravely  comparing  notes,  concluded  they 
would  all  have  a  very  pleasant  summer  together. 

Classes  were  a  novelty  to  them,  educated  as  they  had 
been  thus  far,  alone ;  and  the  competition  naturally  exci- 
ted bea^an  to  make  Eunice  think  that  there  were  other 
studies  that  might  even  vie  in  interest  with  the  stories 
of  history.  ''  Composition"  grew  to  be  anything  but  a 
bug-bear  to  Josepha,  when  half  a  dozen  others  were  occu- 
pied over  the  same  subject,  each  trying  who  could  make 
hers  the  best.  Sophy  and  Maria  were  never  weary  of  tel- 
ling their  companions  what  ''  a  mighty  difference  there 
was  between  the  nice,  coaxing  way  Cousin  Zilpha  and 
Cousin  Edith  had  of  teaching,  and  the  way  their  last  gov- 
erness from  Vermont,  Miss  Fitch,  had."  "  Yes,"  Virginia 
Browne  would  say,  "  papa  always  says  that  persuasion  is 
better  than  force,  and  he  has  a  picture  to  prove  it,  too — one 
boy  cantering  away  on  a  donkey,  while  he  holds  out  over 
its  nose  a  long  stick  with  a  bunch  of  carrots  fastened  to 
the  end  of  it ;  and  another  boy  beating  his  donkey,  and 
making  it  set  its  feet  down  more  stubbornly  at  every  blow." 

^'  I  admire  that  donkey's  spirit,"  was  Fanny  Richards' 
opinion.     "  Nobody  should  ever  drive  me  to  do  anything." 

^'  Or  coax,  either,  eh  ?"  Sally  Edwards  could  not  forbear 
suggesting. 

June,  with  its   wealth  of  roses  and  honeysuckles,  was 
embowering  Silverwood,  till  it  looked  like  a  nest  of  beauty 


302  SILVERWOOD. 

hidden  away  amongst  the  tremulous  aspens.  School  hours 
were  over,  and  the  little  girls  were  assembled  on  the  porch 
with  their  laps  fulFof  flowers,  weaving  wreaths  to  orna- 
ment bridal-cakes,  as  that  night  was  to  witness  the  impor- 
tant affair  of  a  wedding  at  Silverwood,  Daphne  being  the 
bride  elect.  Maria  Irvine  had  furnished  a  fine,  embossed 
sheet,  and  Eunice  had  written  out  in  her  fairest,  *'  copper- 
plate hand" — "  Miss  Daphne  Irvine,  at  home,  eight  o'clock 
P.M.  Silverwood,  June  10th;"  and  then  followed  "the 
list"  of  the  invited  guests  who  were  to  have  "  a  bid,"  ta- 
ken down  from  the  lips  of  the  bride.  Josepha  was  inte- 
rested, heart  and  hand,  in  the  matter,  and  so,  in  less 
degree,  were  most  of  the  others. 

Daphne  appeared,  as  they  were  busy  over  their  worky 
with  a  roll  of  white  ribbon  in  her  hand,  and  the  request 
that  Eunice  would  make  rosettes  out  of  it  for  her  hair. 
Sophy  suggested  that  as  there  were  plenty  of  syringa-blos- 
soms,  they  would  answer  instead  of  an  orange-wreath, 
and  be  more  appropriate  than  the  ribbon. 

"  La,  sakesi  Miss  Sophy;  garden-posies  arn't  fitten  for 
my  wool — mighty  nice  for  white  folks'  har ;  but  to  see  dem 
in  a  cull'ed  gal's,  it's  contrar'  to  my  taste." 

"  Why,  grapes  and  flowers  would  go  very  well  together," 
said  Sally  Edwards 

"Thank  you.  Miss  Sally;  you  sees  no  grapes  on  my 
head — done  lef '  'em  for  Homer  and  Silvy  ;  'sides.  Miss 
Eunice,  flowers  'pears  cheap-like ;  and  Nathan,"  she  added, 


A  BRIDAL.  803 

with  a  show  of  maidenly  bashfulness  at  the  mention  of 
the  name  of  her  affiance^  "  he  bought  me  dat  whole  holt, 
purpose  to  have  me  fixed  off  partio'lar." 

"  I  wonder  it  don't  make  you  blush.  Daphne,"  said  Vir- 
ginia, "  to  speak  of  Nathan  before  us." 

"  How  you  know  but  it  do,  Miss  Grinnie  ?  I  blushes 
brown,  you  see." 

"  Hope  you  won't  forget  to  scour  your  ear-rings  with 
soap  and  sand  in  honor  of  the  occasion,"  broke  in  Fanny 
Richards,  who  sat  pulling  the  flowers  to  pieces  instead  of 
tying  them  into  wreaths. 

Daphne  lifted  her  hands  to  her  great  hoops  with  a  look 
of  offended  dignity. 

"  Miss  Fanny  don't  mean  to  say  dese  arn't  as  much 
goold  as  dem  little  dangles  at  her  years  ?" 

"  Hush  !  Daphne  !"  commanded  Eunice.  "You  mustn't 
take  liberties  because  we'ra  making  so  much  of  you  just 
now." 

'*  La,  Miss  Eunice,  I'm  not  takin'  nothin'  from  nobody." 

"  No,  not  even  my  suggestion  of  sand  for  your  brass," 
said  Fanny,  coolly ;  "  but  look  here,  don't  scour  your 
face ;  the  metal  there  shines  enough  ;  it  might  put  old  Mr. 
Norris  out  of  countenance." 

"  Don't  tease  her,  Fanny,"  interposed  Sophy.  ''  You'll 
put  her  out  of  humor  for  to-night." 

"  No  she  shan't.  Miss  Sophy;  nothing  oughten  ter  put 
me  out,  when  I  see  sich  powerful  pretty  fingers  workin' 


304  SILVEKWOOD. 

for  me  ;  'sides  arn't  I  gwine  to  he  married  to-night  ?"  and 
with  a  triumphant  chuckle  she  disappeared  behind  the 
house,  as  she  heard  Aunt  Rose's  shrill  call. 

Fanny  turned  up  her  little  scornful  nose,  as  she  looked 
down  on  the  group  seated  on  one  of  the  steps.  ''  Some- 
thing J'fZ  be  above,"  she  said,  ''  making  wreaths  for  dar- 
kies !     Why  I  wouldn't  do  it  even  for  our  white  servants." 

a  Why  ?"  asked  Josepha,  with  a  wondering  look. 

"  Why  ?  why  it's  no  business  of  yours  to  be  waiting 
on  servants  ;  besides,  it  spoils  them.  My  mother  always 
says,  if  you're  kind  to  servants,  you'll  have  them  in  your 
lap ;  so  it's  best  to  keep  them  at  a  distance." 

"  But  it  makes  them  love  us  better,  if  we  show  some 
interest  in  their  affairs,"  said  Maria.  "  Mamma  likes  us 
to  make  frocks  and  aprons  for  Mammy  Winnie's  and  Aunt 
Tabby's  little  black  babies — don't  she  Sophy  ?" 

*'  The  idea  of  caring  whether  servants  love  us  or  not !" 
retorted  Fanny,  contemptuously. 

"  But  we  do  care,"  replied  Sophy,  with  some  spirit ; 
"  and  I've  heard  mamma  say  that  the  very  reason  you  all 
had  such  trouble  with  your  white  servants,  changing  them 
so  often,  was  just  because,  up  North,  you  take  so  little 
interest  in  them." 

"  Making  bibs  for  black  babies  I"  persisted  Fanny,  in 
quite  an  amused  way.     "  Wouldn't  that  be  good  to  tell  to 

some  of  our  school-orirls  in ?" 

"  All  city  girls  are  so  set  up  I"  returned  Sophy. 


A   BRIDAL.  805 

'' Alir  d'ye  hear  that   Lucy  Fletcher  ?" 

"  What  ?"  asked  Lucy,  turnmg  the  book  she  had  been 
reading,  back  upward  on  the  seat,  and  sitting  down  on 
the  step  among  the  others. 

"  Oh!  it  don't  apply  to  ijoii^  Lucy,"  said  Sophy  ;  ''you 
see  you're  just  on  a  level  with  the  rest  of  us  now.  I  meant 
it  for  Fanny's  friends — the  school-girls  up  yonder.  For 
my  part,  Fanny,  I  wonder  your  mother  ever  let  you  come 
away  from  such  a  grand  place." 

"  She  only  did  it  because  she  thought  I  would  be  health- 
ier in  the  country." 

"  But  Fm  surprised  yoiCll  allow  there's  better  health  in 
country  than  in  city,"  chimed  in  Sally  Edwards. 

"  I  don't ;  but  it  was  mamma's  fancy." 

"  Come,  girls,"  said  Eunice  ;  "  my  rosettes  are  finished, 
and  Sophy's  and  Sepha's  wreaths ;  and  you,  Maria  and 
Virginia,  have  surely  got  bouquets  enough  there  for  all  the 
bridesmaids.  Come,  let  us  go  and  arrange  the  supper- 
table.  Mother  told  Daphne  she  might  use  the  laundry- 
room  for  the  occasion.  Fanny,"  she  plead,  coaxingly, 
"  you  have  the  best  taste  among  us  ;  go  with  us  and  show 
us  how  to  do  things  up  in  city  style." 

Fanny  was  not  very  hard  to  appease,  so  away  they  all 
went  to  superintend  the  laying  of  cloths,  and  the  placing 
of  dishes.  Josepha  ran  to  beg  her  mother  for  the  cut-glass 
salvers  and  jelly-glasses,  "  for  you  know,  mother,  Nathan 
is  one  of  Mrs.    Grrantley's   house   servants,  and   he  knows 

13- 


306  SILVERWOOD. 

whafs  ivhat^  as  well  as  white  folks."  The  request  was 
granted,  and  Maria  followed,  coaxing  for  the  candelabra 
from  the  parlor  mantel — "mamma  lent  our's.  Aunt  Mary, 
to  Chrissy,  my  maid,  when  she  was  married."  And  so 
the  table  began  to  look  really  tasteful  under  the  busy 
little  hands.  Sally  became  too  interested  to  tease,  and 
Fanny  forgot  to  remember  that  they  were  working  only 
for  the  gratification  of  servants.  Homer  and  Silvy  fetched 
and  carried  for  the  young  mistresses,  and  the  whites  of 
their  eyes  shone  and  their  teeth  glittered  in  admiring 
wonder,  as  the  wreaths  were  bound  round  the  white 
cakes. 

"  D'ye  ever  sec  der  like,  mammy  ?"  questioned  Homer 
of  Aunt  Rose.  "  Hi!  but  Daphne'll  be  sot  up  !  I'll  de- 
clar'  she'll  think  she's  done  got  white.  How  she'll  make 
Silvy  and  me  fly  a'ter  dis — hi !  " 

Uncle  Felix  had  gone  with  the  little  carriage  to  bring 
"  Mas'r  Preacher  Norris,"  as  the  servants  called  him,  who 
was  to  take  tea  with  the  family,  and  afterwards  perform 
the  ceremony.  As  he  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  looking 
kindly  along  the  line  of  bright  little  faces,  so  untouched  of 
care,  so  expectant,  so  mirthful,  he  could  not  forbear  con- 
trasting them  in  his  mind  with  those  meek,  subdued  ones 
which  he  had  been  sitting  tete-a-tete  with  for  the  half 
hour  before. 

In  due  time  Uncle  Felix  appeared  as  usher,  to  announce 
that  the  bridal  party  was  in  readiness.     The  little  girls 


A    BRIDAL.  807 

hurried  away,  and  arranged  themselves  along  the  wall  in 
a  state  of  high  anticipation.  In  the  centre  of  the  room 
stood  Nathan,  a  fine,  aihletic  negro — "  G-od's  image  cut 
in  ebony,"  as  old  Fuller  quaintly  styles  the  African — look- 
ing very  groom-like  with  his  spotless  pants,  vest  and 
gloves.  Daphne,  with  conscious  hlushes — hronni  ones,  of 
course — leaned  lovingly  on  his  arm,  and  flourished  with 
imitative  grace  the  "hook-muslin"  handkerchief,  redolent 
with  the  Luhin's  extract  which  she  had  begged  from  Sophy 
Irvine.  On  either  side  were  arrano^ed  brides-maids  and 
brides-men  of  "  assorted  colors,"  as  Sally  Edwards  whis- 
pered to  Virginia  Browne.  The  old  clergyman  had  no 
sooner  taken  his  station  in  front  of  the  expectant  couple, 
than  one  of  the  attendants  stepped  forward,  and  with  a 
profusion  of  bobbing  and  scraping,  placed  a  paper  containing 
the  fee  in  Mr.  Norris'  hand.  One  better  up  to  the  points  of 
etiquette  attempted  to  prevent  the  faux  j)cis  by  grasping  at 
his  coat  skirts — a  gesture  that  set  the  grown  ones  of  the 
assembled  sable  coterie  to  tittering,  and  the  big-eyed,  bare- 
footed urchins,  whose  bullet  heads  were  poking  out  here 
and  there  among  their  elders,  to  roaring  outright  with 
laughter.  A  few  cuffs  and  shakes  administered  by  some 
of  the  white-turbaned  "aunties"  restored  order,  and  the 
ceremony  proceeded  without  farther  interruption.  Mr. 
Norris  shook  hands  with  the  happy  pair,  as  soon  as  it  was 
over,  leaving  the  unopened  paper  in  the  bride's  palm. 
The  familv  did  the  same,  and  then  the  servants  fell  back. 


808  SILVERWOOD. 

and  the  younger  fry  were  turned  out  of  doors,  while  "  the 
white  folks"  were  invited  forward  to  partake  of  the  good 
cheer.  This  done,  they  returned  to  "  the  house,"  where 
their  ears  were  saluted  with  the  "  tumming  "  of  the  banjo, 
mingled  with  the  sounds  of  hearty  jollity  and  innocent 
mirthfulness,  such  as  set  Fanny  Richards  to  thinking 
that  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  worth  while  to  do  what  one 
could  to  make  even  servants  happy. 


XXX. 

M  nx  t  s  i , 

Edith  was  sitting  alone  on  the  steps  of  an  old  summer 
house,  through  whieh,  amidst  the  openings  in  the  clematis 
that  rather  held  it  together,  than,  owed  any  support  to  it, 
the  early  moon-beams  were  beginning  to  slant.  The  bell 
had  rung  for  an  hour's  evening  study,  and  the  children 
had  all  just  left  her.  She  had  been  exerting  her  powers 
as  a  story-teller  for  their  amusement,  and  successfully,  too, 
to  judge  from  the  merry  laughter  that  had  echoed  through 
the  garden  as  they  listened  to  the  tale.  She  had  smiled 
when  they  did,  but  it  would  have  taken  more  discrimina- 
ting eyes  than  theirs  to  discover  that  the  smile  came  only 
from  the  lips — that  the  heart  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

How  little  do  those  who  see  us  most  constantly — who 
know  us  best — who  love  us  dearest,  dream  of  the  inner 
world  of  joy  or  sadness — of  hope  or  doubt — of  blissfulness  or 
despair,  that  crowds  the  cycle  of  our  being  I  Thousands  of 
the  strongest  emotions  that  stir  us,  die  away  unspoken. 


310  SILVERWOOD. 

Circumstances,  like  pebbles  thrown  into  a  smooth  lake, 
start  concentric  circles  of  feeling,  the  innermost,  the  deep- 
est indented  ;  but  the  far  shore  of  our  outer  life,  if,  indeed, 
the  ripple  reach  it  at  all,  is  scarcely  touched  by  the  faint- 
est emotion.  The  occasion  of  the  inquietude  is  hidden  be- 
neath the  waves  that  only  parted  to  open  it  a  way,  and 
the  unruffled  surface  shows  no  scar,  more  than  does  the 
yielding  water  under  the  blow  of  the  hurled  pebble. 

"It  is  strange,"  thought  Edith;  "strange  that  there 
should  be  any  topic  about  which  Zilpha  and  I  cannot  speak 
to  each  other.  How  seldom  we  name  Bryant !  Various 
times,  indeed,  has  she  made  very  distinct  allusions,  with 
an  evident  desire  to  open  all  her  heart  to  me  ;  but  I  shrunk 
from  her  revelations  ;  I  would  not  let  her  go  on  ;  I  have 
not  been  strong  enough  to  hear  all  the  truth.  How  like  a 
son's,  are  his  tender  letters  to  mother ;  and  what  a  thought- 
ful compassion  in  them,  too,  for  me  I  Love  must  be  very 
beautiful  when  its  purple  bloom  is  yet  unbreathed  upon 
by  its  being  spoken  of  to  another.  How  beautiful  Zilpha 
must  know " 

"  Edith,  are  you  here  ?"  It  was  Zilpha's  softly-modu- 
lated voice  that  spoke.  Edith  bade  her  come  and  sit  down 
beside  her. 

-  "  But,  my  dear,  mother  sent  me  to  call  you  in.  You 
know  how  averse  she  is  to  any  solitary  indulgence  of  mel- 
ancholy moods.  Don't  you  think  you  give  way  to  them 
too  much?" 


UNREST.  811 

'^No.  It  is  better  to  unclose  the  flood-gates,  and  let 
out  the  overcharge  occasionally.     It  relieves  me." 

"  Is  your  heart,  then,  so  full  of  sorrow  still,  dear  Edith?" 

"  Zilpha,  I  believe  all  life  is  a  disappointment  to  me. 
I  feel  as  if  my  clinging  to  it  was  being  loosened  ;  not  so 
much  because  I  realize  the  overtopping  claims  the  better 
life  has  on  my  aftections,  as  that  it  fails  me  at  so  many 
points.  It  is  not  what  my  hopes  had  led  me  to  expect ; 
in  plain  words,  it  disappoints  me  at  every  turn." 

"  You  forget  that  trial,  discipline,  are  the  surest  things 
promised  us.  '  In  the  world  ye  shall  have  tribulation.' 
Why,  then,  be  so  disappointed  that  a  little  of  it  has  come  ? 
But  it  has  been  gently  dispensed ;  and  if  you  had  seen,  as 
/  did,  dear  Lawrence's  translation — for  it  was  more  like 
that  than  death — you  w^ould  feel  that  the  prevailing  sen- 
timent of  our  minds  should  be  thanksgiving." 

''  I  believe  I  can  thank  Grod  for  the  light  over  our 
brother's  grave.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  if  he  were  sleeping 
beside  our  father  up  yonder,"  and  Edith  pointed  in  the 
direction  of  the  village  cemetery,  "  I  should  like  to  lie 
down  beside  him." 

''  Because  you  can  say  with  Paul — '  I  have  finished  my 


coursf 


7  5   ?) 


"  I'm  afraid  I  think  too  much  of  the  rest  and  peace  of 
heaven,  and  of  the  weariness  of  earth." 

"  Weariness!  Why,  yoti  are  not  worn  down  with  toil, 
like  Arnauld  of  whom  we  read  the  other  day,  who  would 


312  SILVERWOOD. 

not  yield  to  the  feeling  of  weariness,  because  he  '  had  all 
eternity  to  rest  in.'  You  are  young ;  you  are  surrounded 
by  those  that  love  you ;  you  have  never  known  want. 
Ah !  Grod  has  been  very  good  to  us.  Think  what  our  case 
would  be  if  He  gave  us  our  deserts." 

"  I  feel  the  truth  of  all  you  say  ;  but  somehow  I  can't 
attain  to  that  calm  state  of  acquiescence  which  dear 
mother  and  you  have  reached.  If  I  were  but  as  good  as 
you  ! " 

•'  Oh  !  don't  say  that,  Edith." 

"  Yes,  I  must  say  it.  You  don't  know  how  often,  when 
I  have  watched  you  both  in  trying  circumstances,  I  have 
envied  the  meekness  with  which  you  have  gone  through 
them,  and  longed  to  learn  the  secret  by  which  you  evaded 
the  struggle  that  was  raising  a  tempest  in  my  ovvn 
breast." 

"  Mother  would  tell  you,  and  I  think  I  can,  too,  that 
a  calm  exterior  does  not  always  betoken  the  absence  of 
all  struggle.  But  the  secret  you  have — '  Thou  wilt 
keep  him  in  perfect  peace  whose  mind  is  stayed  on 
Thee.'  " 

"  '  Perfect  peace  :'  " — Edith  repeated  the  words  two  or 
three  times  over. 

"  Whit  a  music  there  is  in  them  !  "  said  Zilplia. 

"  Yes ;  bat  it  does  not  drown  the  unquiet  murmurs  of 
my  restless  heart." 

"  Why  '  restless,'  dear  Edith  ?  I  don't  understand 
this." 


UXREST.  813 

Edith  leaned  her  head  on  her  sister's  shoulder,  and  did 
not  at  once  reply. 

''  I  think,"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "  that  my  diffi- 
culty is,  that  I  look  backward  and  forward  too  much,  and 
upward  too  little.  You  remind  me  of  what  is  told  of 
Michael  Angelo,  after  he  had  finished  painting  the  ceiling 
of  the  Sistine  Chapel.  His  gaze  had  been  turned  upward 
so  long,  that  when  he  descended  from  the  scaffolding,  he 
could  not,  without  pain,  look  upon  the  ground.  I  keep 
counting  over  one  loss  after  another — home — friends — 
property  ;  and  ah  !  the  dreariest  of  all,  the  taking  away  of 
our  hope  and  stay  ;  the  leagues  of  ocean  between  us  and 
his  lonely  grave,"  and  Edith  buried  her  face  in  her  sister's 
lap.  She  calmed  herself  again,  and  went  on.  "  It  grieves 
me  now  to  see.  dear  mother's  incessant  occupation  and 
anxiety,  and — and — if  you  should  leave  us,  too  !  These 
thoughts  weary  me,  and  make  me  wish  sometimes  that 
the  end  were  come,  and  we  were  all  at  home  in  heaven.'' 

"  If  7  should  leave  you  ?  " 

"  Sister,"  said  Edith,  straightening  herself  up  rigidly, 
"  I  know  it  all  ;  I  know  you  are  beloved  :  I  have  read  it 
in  his  eye.  You  love  him  ;  I  have  read  that,  too,  and  you 
have  told  me  as  much.  I  can  see,  then,  what  the  end 
must  be."  * 

"  He  did  not  speak  to  you  of  it?  " 

"  No — no — not  exactly  in  so  many  words  ;  but  I 
could  gather  more  than  his  tongue  could  have  revealed." 


814  SILVERWOOD. 

"  And  would  it  make  you  sorry,  Edith,  were  I  to  tell 
you  that  it  is  all  so  ?  " 

"Grlad  for  your  sake,  Zilpha,"  and  tlie  white  moonlight 
made  the  cheek  over  which  it  fell,  look  wan  ;  ''but  I 
dare  not  think  how  sorry  for  my  own.  Oh  !  this  rending 
apart  of  home-ties,  the  sweetest,  the  most  precious  of  earth, 
how  bitter  it  is  !  " 

"  Don't  let  us  think  of  it,  then,"  said  Zilpha,  caressingly. 
"  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof." 

"But  I  can't  help  thinking;  and  I  can  see  how  it  is 
all  to  be  arranged.  Mother  and  the  children  will  go  with 
you,  for  we  couldn't  live  at  Silverwood,  if  you,  our  strong- 
est arm,  next  to  dear  Lawrence,  were  taken  away  ;  and 
I — I  can  go  and  be  a  governess." 

"  Edith;  dear  Edith,  as  long  as  you  are  unclaimed,  your 
home  and  mine  must  be  the  same." 

"  "Would  you  condemn  me  to  a  life  of  dependence  when 
self-support  is  within  my  reach  ?  No,  Zilpha,  I  shall 
never  marry  ;  I  feel  that,  and  I  must  teach  myself  thank- 
fully to  accept  what  hundreds  do — the  provision  my 
education  makes  for  me.  Others  as  proud-spirited  as 
myself  are  constrained  often  to  be  content  with  a  depen- 
dence that  would  be  galling  to  me,  however  pure  and 
disinterested  and  ^oble  were  the  intentions  of  those  who 
might  invite  me  thus  to  lean  on  them.  But  I  have  not 
this  further  trial  of  compelled  dependence,  and  I  ought  to 
be  grateful." 


UNEEST.  315 

*'  Dear  Edith,  you  are  borrowing  trouble,  and  paying  a 
most  exorbitant  interest  for  it,"  said  Zilpha,  soothingly. 
"  Do  not  attempt  to  look  into  the  future,  for  pry  as  we 
may,  we  cannot  tell  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.  Let  us 
trust  Him  who  knows  what  is  best  for  us  all,  and  then 
come  what  will,  we  can  appropriate  the  lines  we  so  often 
hear  dear  mother  use — 

*' '  Give  what  Thou  canst,  without  Thee  w^e  are  poor, 
And  with  Thee,  rich,  take  what  Thou  wilt  away  ! '  " 

"Yes,"  sighed  Edith,  ^^  di  practical  faith;  I  know 
that  is  what  I  need  ;   mine  has  been  too  theoretical." 

"  '  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given.'  " 

"  I  do — I  do,"  replied  Edith,  earnestly.  "  I  will  try 
and  be  more  like  mother  and  you." 

"  Look  higher,  my  dear ;  follow  Jesus." 

A  voice  was  heard  shouting  their  names  at  the  garden 
gate — "  Sister  !  Edith  !  mother  wants  you  to  come  in  out 
of  the  dew." 

"  But  promise  me,"  said  Zilpha,  retaining  Edith  in  the 
seat  from  which  she  was  about  to  rise ;  "  promise  me  that 
you  will  not  sadden  yourself  by  such  anticipations  as  you 
have  been  settinsr  forth  to-nioiit.  These  unsubstantial 
spectres  of  the  future  have  no  business  to  be  here  scaring 
you  in  the  daylight  of  the  present." 

"Promise  me,"  replied  Edith,  kissing  her  sister,  "that 
the  subject  we  have  touched  on  shall  not  be  spoken  of 
between  us,  unless  I  introduce  it." 


316  SILVERWOOD. 

*'  Does  it,  indeed,  grieve  you  so  ?"  asked  Zilpha,  a  little 
sorrowfully. 

"  You  shall  talk  of  it  as  much  as  you  will,  after  a 
while  ;  but  I  don't  feel  strong  enough  for  it  just  yet. 
Time,  Zilpha ;  time  and  prayer ;"  and  with  intertwining 
arms  the  sisters  walked  together  to  the  house. 


XXXI. 

Sinunur   ^isittiXB/ 

One  morning,  not  long  after  this,  Uncle  Felix  made 
his  appearance  at  the  parlor  door,  where  Edith  was  giving 
a  music  lesson  to  one  of  her  pupils. 

'*  One  of  de  servants  down  to  Mr.  Carson's  hotel  hrung 
dis  note  for  some  of  you  alls.  Miss  Zilphy." 

Zilpha  received  it.  "  It's  for  you,  Edith,"  she  said, 
looking  at  the  superscription,  as  she  handed  it  to  her. 
Edith  colored  a  little,  as  she  opened  the  note  and  glanced 
over  it. 

''  Ah  I  here  are  Dr.  Dubois  and  Jacqueline,  and  two  or 
three  of  their  city  friends  whom  I  met  last  winter  in 
Milburne,  on  their  way  to  '  the  Springs.'  The  party  go  on 
to-morrow,  with  the  exception  of  the  doctor  and  his  sister 
who  expect  to  delay  a  few  days  to  see  us  and  our  pretty 
country  hereabouts.  Zilpha,  it  will  be  incumbent  on  us  to 
ride  in  and  see  them." 

''  Certainly  it  will,  and  engage  them  to  dinner,  too." 


318  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Yes  ;  how  kind  old  Mr.  Dubois  was  to  me,  and  the 
doctor,  too.  I  shall  be  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  show 
some  appreciation  of  it.  But  need  we  ask  these  other 
people  ?  You  know  we  have  entertained  no  company 
since — since  we  put  on  mourning." 

"  It  will  not  do  to  make  a  selection,  especially  if  you 
received  attentions  at  their  hands  last  winter." 

Accordingly,  Mrs.  Irvine  took  her  daughters'  place  in 
the  school-room,  while  they  went  to  pay  their  duty  to  the 
strangers.  They  found  Jacqueline  protesting  that  she  was 
in  a  state  of  general  dislocation,  and  vowing  that  unless  a 
spring-seated  and  backed  carriage  were  found  for  her  use 
and  behoof,  she  did  not  think  she  could  be  induced  to 
encounter  another  day  of  such  roads  as  they  had  made 
trial  of,  for  all  the  pleasure  a  season  at  a  Virginia  water- 
ing-place could  promise.  The  two  ladies  and  the  gentle- 
man who  formed  their  party,  joined  her  hue  and  cry  of 
abuse  of  the  roads,  but  made  their  amende  honorable  by 
their  unstinted  admiration  of  the  scenery  around  Milburne. 
Dr.  Dubois  thought  the  rough  journey  better  than  a  score 
of  medicated  baths,  or  a  hundred  draughts  of  medicinal 
waters.  After  a  half  hour's  visit,  Zilpha  and  Edith  came 
away,  having  obtained  a  promise  from  the  party  that  they 
would  all  drive  out  and  dine  at  Silverwood. 

Aunt  Hose  had  already  entered  upon  her  leisurely 
preparations  for  the  simple  meal  she  expected  to  prepare, 
when  her  young  mistresses  returned  with  the  announce- 


SUMMER  VISITOES.  819 

ment  that  five  strangers  were  invited  for  dinner.  To 
hurry,  was  a  thing  she  had  never  done  in  her  life.  "Hur- 
ryinV'  she  said,  "  allers  hendered  her,"  and  with  her 
elephantine  proportions,  her  movements  and  methods  all 
corresponded.  Uncle  Felix,  though  he  had  no  such  corpo- 
real incumbrance  to  carry  about  with  him,  was  possessed 
of  the  same  "masterly  inactivity;"  and  Daphne,  while 
she  was  "  a  smart  chance  "  of  a  girl,  did  not  understand 
better  than  other  negroes,  the  practical  meaning  of  dis- 
patch^ in  her  way  of  doing  business.  So  Zilpha  and  Edith 
lent  them  the  aid  of  their  quicker  hands  in  concocting  a 
dessert. 

Homer  was  sent  to  help  Uncle  Felix  catch  a  pair  of 
ducks  and  a  turkey  to  add  to  the  roast  that  was  to  have 
sufficed  for  dinner  ;  but  after  running  himself  out  of 
breath,  he  came  back  unsuccessful,  with  Fidele  at  his 
heels,  declaring  "  dat  dar  dog  wan't  no  'count,  nohow  ; 
he  jes'  skeert  de  things ;  dat's  all ;  an'  Uncle  Felix,  he  so 
stiff,  he  say,  sence  he  have  de  rheumatis',  he's  done  good 
for  nothin'  for  runnin'." 

''  Why  don't  you  scatter  some  corn,"  asked  Edith, 
"  and  coax  them  to  you  in  that  way,  and  then  make  a 
dash  at  some  of  them  ?  Run  and  get  some  in  your 
hat." 

u  Ar'n't  got  no  crown  in  it.  Miss  Edith." 
"Well,  take  something  else,  then  ;  only  catch  them  as 
soon  as  you  can,  or  Aunt  Rose's  dinner  will  be  so  late 


820  SILVERWOOD. 

it  will  have  to  be  put  off,  like  the  Irishman's,  till  to- 
morrow." 

Homer  scampered  off,  with  Silvy  and  Fidcle  and  Uncle 
Felix  to  help  him,  and  in  a  little  while  returned  with 
a  duck  under  one  arm  and  a  chicken  under  the  other. 

^'  Sure  'nuff,  Miss  Edith ;  here  dey  be  !  " 

"  But  they  don't  match,  Homer." 

^'  Dey's  both  got  a  blind  eye — see  !  " 

But  Homer  was  assured  they  would  not  do  to  go 
together,  and  so,  after  no  little  farther  delay  and  trouble, 
the  needed  fowls  were  at  length  secured. 

Daphne  had  Zilpha's  assistance  in  compounding  pud- 
dings and  cream-tarts,  which  were  to  rival  those  of  ''  the 
widow  of  Nourreddin  ;"  and  as  Aunt  Rose  set  down  the 
second  pitcher  of  cream  she  had  been  dispatched  for  to 
the  milk-house,  with  an  emphatic  jerk  upon  the  table 
beside  Edith,  she  gave  vent  to  the  opinion  that  "  com- 
pany was  like  de  'Grypton  locuses — eats  up  all  clean  afore 
'em.'^ 

Edith  had  her  materials  for  the  ice  she  was  preparing 
ready  to  deliver  into  Uncle  Felix's  hands  for  freezing, 
when  she  remembered  that  it  had  not  been  flavored. 
Josepha,  who  was  making  herself  "generally  useful," 
now  that  her  lessons  were  over,  was  sent  to  bring  a  vanil- 
la-bean. 

"  Only  a  bit  of  a  one  here,"  she  said,  holding  up  the 
empty  box. 


SUMMER  VISITORS.  321 

*'  Well,  some  of  the  '  pine-apple  extract '  will  do." 

"  Mother  gave  out  the  last  of  that  for  Daphne's  wed- 
ding." 

^'  And  not  a  lemon  within  a  mile  of  us  ?  No  wine  in 
that  bottle  either  ?" 

Josepha  turned  the  bottle  upside  down. 

"  We  seem  to  be  rather  in  an  extremity.  "Well,  they'll 
have  to  take  it  plain." 

''  Needn't  do  dat,  Miss  Edith,"  said  Daphne,  and  laying 
down  her  rolling-pin,  she  ran  out  and  returned  in  a  mo- 
ment with  a  handful  of  peach-leaves.  ''  Jes'  you  bile  'em 
in  a  pint  of  de  cream,  and  dey'll  never  know  but  you'd  a 
bushel  of  bitter  almonds." 

At  the  appointed  hour  Dr.  Dubois  made  his  appearance 
alone.  Jacqueline,  with  her  accustomed  self-indulgence, 
had  allowed  her  slight  fatigue  to  release  her  from  her 
promise  ;  and  as  she  declared  it  would  be  too  stupid  to 
stay  behind  alone,  by  dint  of  coaxing  and  pouting  she 
prevailed  on  the  lady  who  was  anxious  to  go,  to  remain 
with  her,  especially  as  their  other  companion  was  in  bed 
with  a  head-ache,  and  "  it  could  make  no  difference  what- 
ever to  the  Ir vines  whether  they  came  or  not."  The  other 
gentleman  of  the  party  felt  obHged  to  stay,  too,  particu- 
larly as  Jacqueline  intimated  that  it  would  be  awkward 
to  go  down  to  the  table  without  him  or  her  brother.  Dr. 
Dubois  evidently  was  mortified  at  the  lameness  of  Jac- 
queline's excuse,  and  softened  it  as  much  as  he  could, 

14: 


322  SILVERWOOD. 

reminding  Edith  that  she  knew  his  sister  of  old  for  a 
spoiled  child,  and  would  therefore  make  allowances. 

''  Hosh  !"  ejaculated  Aunt  Rose,  pushing  Homer  from 
her  as  he  imparted  the  result  of  his  investigations  gath- 
ered at  the  dining-room  door,  hetween  which  and  the  kitch- 
en, twenty  yards  from  the  house,  he  was  runner  for  Uncle 
Felix  ;  and  she  puffed  away  vigorously  at  the  pipe  where- 
with she  was  regaling  herself  after  the  Herculean  labor  of 
dinner-getting.  "  Now,  hoy,  don't  tell  me,"  she  said,  re- 
moving her  mouth-piece,  and  rolling  a  slow  cloud  from  her 
voluminous  lips,  "  dat  dar's  no  more  nor  one  gentleman 
dar.     I  done   got  eatins  'nulf  for   ten,  least  calc'lation." 

"  Ony  one,  mammy,  I  tell  you  ;  I  seed  him." 

"  Bless  my  heart!  all  dis  yer  stewin'  and  sweatin'  for 
ony  one ; — an'  dar'U  be  two  pounds  less  butter  at  de  nex' 
churnin',  d'out  mistake !  Wonder  at  dis  rate  when  I'se 
to  git  dat  dar  new  coat  ole  Mis'  promised  me  if  I'd  make 
butter  '  nuff  from  our  own  cov>^s  to  do  d'out  buy  in'  dis 
month  ?  You  Silvy  I  tetch  dat  silver  fork  agin  if  you  dar. 
If  you  want  de  turkey-leg  off  de  plate,  take  it  wid  yer 
own  fingers.  Silver  forks  is  got  no  business  in  niggas' 
mouths  ;"  and  the  old  cook  betook  herself* to  her  consola- 
tory pipe  again,  musing,  as  she  smoked,  on  "  the  cur'us 
ways  of  white  folks." 

Edith  drove  down  to  Milburne  the  next  morning  for 
Jacqueline,  as  she  and  her  brother  were  pledged  to  take 
up  their  abode  with  them  for  a  few  days,  as  soon  as  the 
lest  of  thtiir  party  would  leave  them. 


SUMMER  VISITORS.  823 

^'Ah!  you,  Edith?"  said  the  lady  in  question,  rising 
languidly  from  the  sofa  in  the  hotel  parlor,  and  letting  a 
kiss  drop  somewhere  on  Edith's  cheek.  Why,  you  look 
paler  than  you  did  last  winter.  Been  sick,  eh  ?"  and 
without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  rattled  on  in  her  noncha- 
lant way,  through  a  half  hour  of  rather  wearisome  chatter 
to  Edith,  drawing  up,  at  length,  on  the  not  yet  worn-out 
topic  of  the  roads. 

*'  Such  highways  as  you  do  have  in  Virginia  !  Really, 
Dickens'  experience  in  the  '  District'  isn't  so  overdrawn  as 
I  supposed.  Your  limestone  strata  all '  crop  out'  into  your 
roads,  it  seems  to  me.  Now,  Griovanni,  assure  me  profes- 
sionally that  I  will  suffer  no  farther  risk  in  riding  out  to 
Silverwood." 

''  Not  so  much  as  in  walking  from  Chestnut  and  Fourth 
to  Chestnut  and  Twelfth ;  and  it's  about  as  far." 

"  My  brother  is  a  tease  yet,  you  see,  Edith ;  but  I've 
made  enough  progress  in  my  Italian  studies  to  hurl  lines 
from  Ariosto  and  Groldoni  at  him  when  he  becomes  insuf- 
ferable. If  I  get  to  the  '  White  Sulphur'  alive,  and  don't 
have  too  many  bones  dislocated  to  dance,  I  expect  to  have 
a  rare  time.     Can  you  go,  too,  Edith  ?" 

Edith's  eyes  fell  on  her  mourning  dress. 

"  Oh  !  to  be  sure!"  said  Jacqueline,  comprehending  her 
thought;  "but  you  needn't  dance.  John  hates  it,  and 
undertakes  to  say  it's  a  silly  way  for  sensible  people  to 
find  amusement  in  ;  so  he'll  suit  you  in  that  respect." 


324  SILVERWOOD. 

Dr.  Dubois  joined  his  solicitations  to  his  sister's  passing 
question,  and  in  a  kind,  earnest  way  to  which  she  was  a 
stranger. 

"  We  are  going  to  take  the  general  circuit,"  Jacqueline 
went  on,  "  and  will  have  you  back  here  by  the  first  of 
September.'* 

Edith  thanked  them  and  declined,  saying  that  their 
school  duties  would  not  be  up  before  that. 

"  Bless  me !  and  you  teach !"  exclaimed  Jacqueline, 
with  something  more  akin  to  pity  in  her  voice  than  her 
listener  had  ever  heard  there  before.  "  How  that  would 
fret  me  !  But  never  mind  ;  your  mother  can  do  that  for 
you." 

*'  My  sister  and  I  feel  as  if  our  mother  had  duties  enough, 
without  that  in  addition  ;  but  come,  shall  Uncle  Felix  get 
your  trunk  ?" 

"  She  has  two  of  them  as  big  as  dining-tables,"  said 
Dr.  Dubois,  "  and  a  bonnet-box  to  boot,  in  which  Queen 
Elizabeth  might  have  carried  a  score  of  her  tallest  ruffs. 
I  protest.  Miss  Edith,  against  having  your  house  lumbered 
with  them  all." 

"  Separate  a  lady  from  her  baggage  !"  broke  forth  Jac- 
queline, rising,  and  looked  for  the  first  time  animated. 
''  No,  injieed  ;  I  say  like  Ruth  :  '  where  thou  goest,  I  will 
go.'"    ^' 

"  Oh !  by  all  means  it  shall  go,"  said  Edith,  smiling. 
"  Uncle  Felix  can  easily  return  for  it." 


SUMMER  VISITORS.  825 

"  For  0/ze,"  plead  the  doctor.  But  *'  all  or  none,"  was 
Jacqueline's  ultimatum,  and  so  the  matter  was  settled. 
*'  Sister  !  Edith  !"  shouted  Josepha,  making  an  exci- 
ted irruption  into  the  parlor,  where,  an  evening  or  two  af- 
ter the  arrival  of  the  Dubois,'  they  sat  talking  together ; 
*'  I  do  believe  Cousin  Barry  is  coming  up  the  lane  I  It's 
a  gentleman  on  horseback,  and  he  shook  hands  with  Uncle 
Felix  when  he  opened  the  road- gate  for  him.  Oh  !  I  do 
hope  it's  Cousin  Barry  !"  and  the  little  news-carrier  rushed 
out  again  to  ascertain  whether  her  hopes  were  to  be  real- 
ized. Zilpha  followed  her.  Edith  sat  still,  not  uncon- 
scious that  a  pair  of  questioning  eyes  were  fastened  upon 
her,  while  Jacqueline  filled  up  the  pause. 
"  '  Cousin  Barry  V  who's  that  ?" 

"  Mr.  Woodruff,  a  relation  of  mother's,"  replied  Edith, 
rising  and  arranging  the  pieces  of  music  Jacqueline  had 
scattered  over  the  piano. 

"  Oh  !  yes ;  he  was  with  you  a  few  days  when  I  spent 

a  month  at  B ,  two  summers  ago.     Didn't  I  hear  you 

say  he  was  a  clergyman  now  ?     That  a  craft   I've  a  des- 
perate fear  of." 

"  But  if  all  'the  cloth'  were  like  Mr.  Woodruff,  as  I 
used  to  know  him,''  said  Doctor  Dubois,  "  people  of  the 
world  would  have  no  need  to  be  scared  away  from  religion 
by  the  gravity  of  its  teachers.  Many  of  them,  unfortu- 
nately, are  like  the  man  Charles  Lamb  tells  us  of,  from 
whom  Newton  might  have  deduced  his  law  of  gravitation. 
Has  his  profession  changed  Mr.  Woodruff,  Miss  Edith  ?" 


826  STLVERWOOD. 

"  No  ;  except,  perhaps,  to  tone  down  his  native  exuber- 
ance a  little,  leaving  the  same  firm,  buoyant  manhood 
about  him." 

"  To  a  leaden  grey  ?"  asked  Jacqueline.  "  That's  what 
I  can't  understand,  why  clergymen  should  eschew  life's 
sunshine  so  much." 

"  How  mistaken  you  both  arc !"  exclaimed  Edith. 
"There  is  no  class  of  men  who  lead  happier,  more  sunshiny 
lives  than  they  do.  If  you  had  been  accustomed  to  see 
parties  of  them  together,  as  I  have  often,  and  to  listen  to 
their  sparkling,  vivacious,  genial  talk,  you  would  change 
your  opinions.  You  judge  them  from  their  pulpit  faces, 
for  that's  all  you  see  of  them.  In  social  life,  no  men  as 
a  class,  are — I  was  a  going  to  say — quite  so  delightful." 
Edith  had  been  listening  while  she  spoke,  and  now  the 
steps  of  the  party  were  heard  entering  the  house.  She 
advanced  in  the  gathering  dusk,  holding  out  her  hands 
with  eager  cordiality  to  the  figure  that  filled  the  door- 
way, and  found  them  grasped,  not  by  Bryant  "Wooduff, 
but  by  Mr.  Fleming.  So  prepared  had  she  been  to  meet 
the  former,  that  for  a  moment  she  had  as  much  trouble  to 
recall  her  self-possession,  as  Josepha  had  to  hide  her  dis- 
appointment. 

"  Dr.  Dubois,  Mr.  Fleming."  The  gentlemen  bowed 
distantly,  as  Zilpha  named  them  to  each  other  ;  but  no 
sooner  were  lights  brought,  than  Mr.  Fleming  started  up, 
exclaiming:  "  Is  it  possible!"  and  extended    his  hand  to 


SUMMER   VISITOES.  327 

the  doctor,  on  whose  part  the  recognition  was  just  as  sim- 
ultaneous. ''  Who  would  have  thought  we  should  come 
here  to  meet  ?"  said  Mr.  Fleming. 

*'  Who,  indeed  ?  It's  just  four  years  last  month  since 
we  parted  in  the  Custom  House  at  Liverpool,  and  as  I've 
heard  not  a  word  of  you  since,  I  didn't  know  but  that  you 
had  expatriated  yourself  wholly,  renounced  mother-tongue, 
and  smoked  av/ay  all  memory  of  any  world  outside  of  a 
Grerman  University." 

"  And  I  might  as  well  have  surmised  that  some  Parisian 
Hospital  had  engulphed  you." 

It  was  soon  made  plain  to  the  somewhat  mystified  look- 
ers on,  that  the  very  natural  circumstance  of  being  pas- 
sengers on  board  the-  same  steamer  to  Europe,  had  started 
an  acquaintanceship  mutually  agreeable,  which,  after 
separation,  had  never  permitted  to  ripen,  and  they  both 
hailed  with  pleasure  the  fact  that  came  out  in  the  course 
of  conversation,  that  they  were  bound  for  the  same  water- 
ing-place, and  could  be,  consequently,  travelling  compan- 
ions for  the  next  few  weeks. 

Jacqueline  could  not  restrain  the  satisfaction  she  felt 
at  the  prospect,  especially  after  she  ascertained  Mr.  Flem- 
ino^  to  be  the  son  of  the  Colonel  Fleminsf  whom  she  had 
heard  frequently  named  in  her  visits  to  New-York  as 
making  quite  a  figure  there  during  his  furloughs. 

"  Now  do  go  with  us,"  she  Avhispered  in  the  course  of 
the  evening  to  Edith.    "  Three  are  no  company,  you  know 


828  SILVERWOOD. 

and  your  mother  and  sister  can  take  care  of  these  few 
little  girls  very  well  without  you." 

"  Circumstances  would  not  warrant  my  going  just  now, 
even  if  I  wished  it.  Times  have  changed  with  us,  you 
must  remember." 

^'  Dear  me  !  it  wouldn't  cost  much — not  over  a  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars,  I'm  sure." 

"  You  remind  me,  Jacqueline,"  said  Edith,  smiling 
faintly,  "  of  some  English  Princess,  who,  when  she  heard 
of  a  famine  in  a  certain  district,  expressed  astonishment 
at  it,  declaring  she  would  rather  eat  bread  and  cheese 
than  starve  I" 

There  were  some  visitors  at  Silverwood  the  next  mor- 
ning, and  among  them,  Mr.  Phillips.  .  In  answer  to  some 
questions  from  the  gentlemen  as  to  the  localities  of  the 
neighborhood,  he  offered  himself  as  cicerone,  if  they  and 
the  ladies  present  would  make  a  party  for  the  ascent  of 
Castlehead,  whose  grand  and  striking  proportions  they  had 
just  had  under  review.  He  described  the  evening  view 
from  its  top  as  enchanting  to  a  sun-set  fancier,  and  so 
fired  the  imaginations  of  his  listeners  that  they  were  eager 
to  fall  in  with  his  proposition.  It  was  accordingly  settled 
that  on  the  following  evening  the  party  should  leave  Silver- 
wood  in  time  to  make  the  distance  before  the  sun  would 
sink  below  his  horizon  of  purple  mountains. 


IXXII. 

It  had  been  a  rich,  golden  day,  and  through  the  Silver- 
wood  aspens  the  westering  sun  was  pouring  its  gleams  of 
restless  radiance,  as  the  party  assembled  on  the  porch, 
ready  for  their  equestrian  excursion.  The  little  girls  had 
all  been  treated  to  a  canter  up  and  down  the  long  lane  by 
the  servants  who  held  the  horses  in  waiting,  and  they  now 
came  bounding  up  the  gravel  path  in  exuberant  spirits, 
their  hair  disheveled,  and  their  bright,  pretty  faces  all 
a-glow  with  the  inspiriting  exercise. 

"  Mr.  Fleming,"  said  Jacqueline,  addressing  herself  to 
that  gentleman  as  they  all  descended  from  the  porch, 
"  pray,  be  my  train-bearer,  and  take  charge  of  my  whip 
while  I  draw  on  these  gauntlets ;"  and  gracefully  gather- 
ing up  the  long  riding-dress,  she  deposited  its  folds  in  the 
proffered  hand.  Then  her  cap  was  to  be  adjusied,  and  her 
floating  curls  re-arranged,  so  that  before  she  was  ready  to 
mount,  Zilpha  and  Edith  were  both  in  their  saddles.     Mr. 

14# 


830  SILVERWOOD. 

Phillips  stepped  forward,  though  she  had  riot  yet  relieved 
Mr.  Fleming  from  duty,  and  was  ahout  to  lower  his  hand 
to  receive  her  foot,  when  she  turned  to  him  with  one  of 
her  blandest  smiles — "  You  see,  sir,  I  have  one  cavalier  al- 
ready in  waiting." 

"  Then  I  am  to  understand  that  your  footing  is  secure 
with  this  gentleman  ?  Quite  an  underhand  ruse,  by  the 
way,  Mr.  Fleming,  for  you  to  practice  on  me,"  he  added 
in  a  playful  aside,  "  after  you  had  yourself  arranged  the 
matter  differently." 

"  Nevertheless,  you  will  throw  me  down  no  gauntlet. 
The  commands  of  fair  ladies  are  not  to  be  disobeyed." 

"  I  am  a  disinherited  knight.  Miss  Irvine,"  said  Mr. 
Phillips,  coming  back  to  Zilpha.  "  "Will  you  take  com- 
passion on  me,  and  allow  me  a  place  at  your  saddle-bow  ? 
You  see  how  Miss  Dubois  has  put  her  foot  upon  Mr. 
Fleming's  expectations." 

In  a  couple  of  hours'  time  they  were  threading  the  narrow 
bridle-path  that  wound  up  the  mountain's  side.  Tall  trees 
of  primeval  growth  almost  wholly  shut  out  the  view,  and 
even  when  here  and  there  they  did  come  out  upon  patches 
of  cleared  ground,  Mr.  Phillips  exacted  a  promise  from 
them  that  they  would  not  look  back,  and  thus  lessen  by 
half  glimpses  the  effect  of  the  tout  ensemble  when  they 
should  arrive  at  the  top  of  the  mountain. 

Mr.  Phillips  and  Zilpha  were  the  leaders  of  the  party ; 
and  whilst  the  others  were  still  shrouded  amidst  the  tang- 


CASTLEHEAD.  881 

led  brushwood  and  overtopping  trees,  they  could  catch 
Zilpha's  exclamations  of  delight  as  she  stepped  out  upon 
the  flat  rock  which  commanded  a  sweeping  view  of  the 
almost  entire  ridgy  horizon.  They  pressed  upward  as  fast 
as  the  steep  ascent  would  permit,  for  they  had  dismounted 
some  hundreds  of  yards  farther  down,  and  left  their  horses 
picketed  under  the  care  of  Uncle  Felix,  who,  as  sumpter 
to  the  party,  carried  a  supply  of  shawls  for  the  possible 
coolness  of  the  homeward  ride. 

"How  magnificent!"  "how  beautiful!"  were  the  ex- 
clamations of  one  and  another  as  they  emerged  from  the 
forest  and  joined  their  companions  on  the  rock.  "  And 
how  weary  I  am  of  such  chamois  leaps !"  cried  Jacque- 
line, as  she  made  it  Mr.  Fleming's  first  care  to  roll  up  a 
loose  stone  for  her  seat  before  he  had  given  the  scene  a 
moment's  attention. 

Beneath  their  feet  the  tops  of  the  tallest  oaks  were  nod- 
ding their  graceful  obeisance  to  the  whispering  evening 
wind,  and  "  all  the  leaves  of  the  trees  clapped  their  hands." 
Irregular  strips  of  cleared  land  were  conspicuous  here  and 
there  down  the  mountain's  slopes,  w4th  the  rude  log  cabin 
in  the  centre,  from  Avhich  the  smoke  curled  in  blue  wreaths 
heavenward.  From  its  base  stretched  away  the  farm- 
lands, with  their  innumerable  and  various  shaped  fields, 
some  pale  brown,  some  white  with  the  ripened  harvests, 
some  purple  with  clover,  others  green  with  waving  corn, 
and  scattered  among  them  over  the  wide-spreading  valley 


832  SILVERWOOD. 

were  the  homesteads  with  their  windows  gleaming  in  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun,  and  the  roofs  of  Milburne,  its  spires 
showing  clearly  against  the  depth  of  shadow  behind.  Then 
there  were  wooded  knolls,  deep  ravines  with  jagged  shadows 
under  their  brows,  dark  copses  warmed  here  and  there  by- 
exquisite  touches  of  gilding  light,  chasms  from  which  the 
day  had  already  faded,  little  vales  running  up  between  the 
hills,  and  winding  brooks  braided  like  silver  threads  into 
the  velvet  tissue  of  the  landscape.  Above  and  beyond  all, 
surged  away  the  broken  line  of  mountains  of  every  form, 
smooth  and  wooded,  and  of  a  misty  green;  bold,  jutting 
and  gray,  or  towering  promontory-like,  with  sharp  peaks ; 
range  upon  range,  one  rounded  curve  over  another,  till  the 
pale,  purple  vestments  in  which  they  wrapped  themselves, 
dissolved  and  faded  away  into  the  silvery  gray  of  the  dis- 
tant sky. 

"  How  does  all  this  gorgeous  and  golden  show  impress 
you  ?"  asked  Mr.  Fleming,  coming  up  behind  Zilpha,  who 
stood  in  a  maze  of  speechless  admiration. 

"With  a  silent  wonder — everything  is  so  beautiful,  so 
grand  !  Who,  but  the  Almighty  Builder,  could  congregate 
such  an  uncounted  variety  of  splendors  as  stretch  from 
this  rock  on  which  we  stand,  away  yonder  to  '  the  utmost 
bound  of  the  everlasting  hills  V  How  fine  that  scripture 
expression  sounds  here  I" 

"  You  went  to  the  highest  source,  I  see,  for  your 
thought ;  I  had  gone  to  Tegner  for  mine  : 


CASTLEHEAD.  883 

"  '  Ah  !  if  so  much  of  beauty  pour  itself 

Through  all  the  veins  of  life  and  of  creation. 
How  beautiful  must  the  great  fountain  be — 
The  bright — the  eternal !' " 

''  And  I  to  Beattie  for  mine,"  said  Edith,  whose  hands 
were  joined  unconsciously,  as  if  in  worship,,  while  she  re- 
peated ; 

*"  Oh  !  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 

Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields  ! 
The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding   shore, 

The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of  fields, 
All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds. 

And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even, 
All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom  shields, 

And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven, 
Oh  !  how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  be  forgiven  !'  " 

''  And  you,  Dr.  Duhois,  what  has  your  thought  been  ?" 
asked  Zilpha. 

"  "Wliy,  to  speak  truly,  an  idea  of  Ruskin's  was  running 
through  my  head  about  mountains  being  the  bones  of  the 
earth,  the  muscles  and  tendons  of  its  anatomy  being  in 
them  ;  that  their  spirit  is  action,  as  with  heaving  bosoms 
and  exulting  limbs,  and  clouds  drifting  like  hair  from 
their  foreheads,  they  lift  up  their  Titan  hands  to  heaven, 
saying  :  '  I  live  forever  !'  " 

"  Now  isn't  that  like  G-iovanni,  Edith!"  exclaimed  Jac- 
queline, laughing,  "to  go  to  his  profession  for  an  illustra- 
tion or  a  quotation  to  suit  him  ?" 


334  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Or  like  the  poet  Bryant:  he  speaks  of  the  mountains 
as  'rock-ribbed.'  The  idea,  though  it  may  commend  itself 
to  you  professionally  doctor,  is,  nevertheless,  natural  and 
beautiful.'' 

''  But  you,  Mr.  Phillips,"  interposed  Zilpha,  "  let  us 
share  your  thought,  too." 

"  I  ?  Oh,  of  course,  with  my  practical  turn  of  mind  I 
have  been  making  a  mental  survey  for  a  canal  through 
the  valley  yonder,  and  am  hesitating  through  which  gap 
among  those  mountains  a  rail-road  could  be  mo^t  easily 
constructed.  I  think  it  quite  excusable  in  Dr.  Dubois  to 
be  taking  his  own  view  of  matters,  weighing,  perhaps,  the 
small  chances  a  disciple  of  Esculapius  must  have  of  em- 
ployment where  there  are  such  barriers  to  disease  as  these 
ridges,  and  where  Nature  puts  on  such  airs,  and  laughs  to 
scorn  the  ills  to  which  '  flesh  is  heir,'  as  forbidden  intru- 
ders among  the  valleys  to  which  her  own  pure  breath  is 
air." 

"  What  an  extinguisher  you  put  upon  our  enthusiasm 
and  sentiment !"  said  Edith,  laughing,  in  a  half-chiding 
way. 

"  The  bare  mention  of  rail-roads  and  canals  in  such  a 
presence  is  a  sort  of  desecration." 

"  It  would  kindle,  instead  of  extinguishing  mine,"  broke 
in  Jacqueline,  "  if  there  were  a  rail-road  there.  I  would 
prefer  seeing  it,  to  a  river  like  the  Hudson-  or  the  Rhine, 
for  then  I  should  be  spared  the  vision  of  slow,  lumbering, 
old-time  stage  coaches  that  now  looms  before  me." 


CASTLEHEAD.  835 

"  But  you  didn't  hit  my  train  of  thought,  Mr.  Phillips, 
after  all,"  said  Dr.  Dubois. 

"Ah!  too  fast  for  me,  was  it? — flown  hy  on  Miss  Du- 
bois' railway?" 

"  The  farthest,  possible,  from  it.  Miss  Edith,  I  will  turn 
from  these  irreverent  speculators  in  rail-roads  and  canals, 
to  you.  Do  you  recall  that  exquisite  pastoral  of  Words- 
worth, which  you  read  to  me  one  evening  in  my  father's 
library  ;  the  one  you  told  me  Coleridge  said  he  never  could 
read  with  an  unclouded  eye  ?" 

"  '  The  Brothers,''  do  you  mean?" 

"  Yes,  that  v.^as  it.  There  are  two  lines  in  it  I  am  try. 
insf  to  remember." 

o 

"  Is  it  the  old  'Priest's'  reply  to  the  '  Traveler'  who  had 
been  so  moved  by  his  sad  story  ? 

"  'If  you  weep 
To  hear  a  stranger  talking  about  strangers, 
Heaven  bless  you  when  you  are  among  your  kindred  !'  " 

"  No  ;  it  related  to  the  spirit  of  mountaineers." 
"  All,  yes ! 

"  '  The  thought  of  death  sits  easy  on  the  man 

Who  has  been  born  and  dies  among  the  mountains.'  " 

"  But  why,"  asked  Zilpha,  ''  should  death  be  less  to 
them  than  others  ?" 

"  That  it  is  so,  facts  prove,"  replied  Dr.  Dubois  ;  "  for 
the  world  over,  mountaineers  have  ever  been  fan\ous  for 


336  SILVERWOOD. 

their  daring,  and  their  scorn  of  danger  and  death.  They 
find  more  in  their  daily  life  to  test  these  qualities.  Trial 
developes  and  strengthens  them,  and  their  souls  grow  into 
something  of  the  grandeur  of  Nature  in  her  loftiest  exhi- 
bitions." 

"  Those  sun-burnt  rustics  hoeing  corn  down  on  yon 
cleared  patch  you  will  allow  are  exceptions,  with  Miss 
Dubois  and  myself,"  interrupted  Mr.  Phillips,  mischievously. 

"  I  beg  to  be  left  out  of  that  category,  if  you  please, 
sir,"  said  Jacqueline,  bridling  a  little ;  "  rusticity  is  my 
abomination." 

"  Ah  !  beg  pardon,  Miss  Dubois.  If  the  category  offends 
you,  let  me  substitute  my  dogmatical  assertion,  that  any 
one  less  suggestive  of  rusticity  than  your  delicate  self  can- 
not be  conceived  of.  Except  from  present  proof,  I  might 
have  imagined  that  your  eye  had  never  even  before  rested 
upon  a  cornfield." 

"  Mr.  Phillips,"  said  Edith,  "  I  wish  we  had  Miss  Grant 
with  us  to  keep  you  in  order,  or  to  cross  blades  with  you 
in  your  word-play." 

"  Let  us  grant — " 

"  Yes,  Lettuce  Grant,"  retorted  Edith,  catching  up  his 
unfinished  sentence. 

"  You  took  advantage  of  me  there,  Miss  Edith.  I  only 
meant  to  propose  to  Miss  Dubois  that  we  should  grant  a 
truce  to  any  further  hostilities  against  the  '  sentiment'  so 
evidently  in  the  ascendant,  and  crouch  at  your  feet,  meekly 


CASTLEHEAD.  ,  837 

receptive  of  whatever  shreds  of  poetry  you  may  choose  to 
throw  us." 

The  trio  who  sat  at  the  foot  of  a  knarled  old  hemlock, 
taking  in  the  sublimity  and  loveliness  of  the  scene  before 
them,  had  pursued  their  conversation  uninterrupted  by 
this  by-play. 

"  My  associations  with  mountains  are  mostly  of  a  holy 
character,"  said  Zilpha  ;  "  they  have  been  so  signalised  by 
grand  displays  of  Almighty  power  and  mercy.  There  is 
Ararat,  Moriah,  Sinai,  Horeb,  Pisgah.  Ah,  yes ;  over 
some  such  immense  circuit  of  hill  and  valley  must  the 
eye  of  the  old  Prophet  have  swept,  as  he  looked  over  into 
the  land  of  Promise  across  the  Jordan.  You  remember, 
Mr.  Fleming,  reading  to  dear  Lawrence,  Melville's  imagin- 
ings as  to  the  extent  of  the  prophetic  vision  ?" 

'•  Yes ;  and  remember,  too,  how  your  brother  was  touched 
by  the  fancied  arrest  of  the  eye  of  Moses,  as  he  saw  down 
through  the  vista  of  ages,  by  the  gleam  of  the  white  walls 
of  Bethlehem." 

"  Then  there  is  Carmel,  and  Olivet,  and  Tabor,  and 
Calvary.  Those  who  have  '  been  born  and  die  among  the 
mountains,'  might  well  let  the  thought  of  death  '  sit  easy 
on  them,'  Dr.  Dubois,  if  they  only  remember  how  the  foot- 
steps of  G-od  have  consecrated  them,  and  that  a  mountain 
was  the  chosen  altar  for  the  world's  sacrifice." 

''  I  confess  that  had  not  occurred  to  me  as  a  reason  for 
the  thought  of  death  being  softened  to  them,"  replied  the 
doctor. 


338  r  SILVERWOOD. 

"It  is  the  only  thing  that  can  reconcile  humanity  any- 
where to  dissolution,"  said  Zilpha,  with  a  sweet  gravity. 

"  And  to  come  down  to  later  times,"  pursued  Mr.  Flem- 
ing, "  still  following  out  your  thought.  Miss  Zilpha,  how 
the  Waldenses,  and  the  Huguenots,  and  the  Covenanters, 
have  made  sacred  the  Appenines,  and  the  Alps,  and  the 
Cevennes,  and  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  and  the  New 
England  hills,  and  these  very  AUeghanies.  But  while  we 
talk,  we  are  forgetting  to  note  the  fine  effect  of  this  flood 
of  golden  light  over  the  landscape.  Look  at  the  sharp, 
grey  line  of  shadow  those  peaks  to  the  right  yonder  cast 
across  the  mountains  east  of  them." 

"  And  what  a  cool  amethyst  these  western  ones  leave 
against  the  golden  edge  of  the  sky  I"  exclaimed  Edith,  en- 
joyingly. 

''  Yes  ;  I  was  just  comparing  them  in  my  mind  to  the 
amethyst  set  of  jewelry  papa  gave  me  for  a  Christmas 
present  last  winter,"  remarked  Jacqueline. 

"  What  a  miracle  of  sublimity  a  sun-set  would  be  ac- 
counted, did  we  see  it  but  once  in  a  life-time,"  said  Mr. 
Fleming. 

'•  Yes;  see  what  a  triumphant  smile  he  sends  up,  like  a 
dying  martyr,  from  the  midst  of  his  death- fires  I"  and 
Edith  waved  her  hand  round  the  burnished  horizon. 

"  And  can't  you  improvise  a  death-song  for  him.  Miss 
Edith  ?     Come,  be  our  tenth  muse." 

"  I  am,  unfortunately,  not  like  novel  heroines,  ready 


CASTLEHEAD.  339 

with  appropriate  stanzas  for  every  emergency.  Zilpha 
has  a  more  faithful  memory  than  I  have ;  perhaps  she  can 
recite  you  something  in  keeping  with  the  time  and  place." 

Zilpha  was  at  once  beset  with  applications  to  become 
raconteur.  "A  ballad,"  "a  sun-set  tale,"  "an  Indian 
legend,"  were  suggested  in  turn. 

"  With  these  fresh  mountain  breezes  about  us,  and  this 
glorious  land  stretching  away  on  all  sides,  we  want  some- 
thing heroic,  patriotic  ;  something  that  will  make  us  feel 
what  a  rich  heritage  of  freedom  we  have,"  said  Mr. 
Fleminsf. 

''  Something  a  la  Young- American,"  hinted  Mr.  Phillips. 

"  If  any,  or  all  of  you  have  read  '  Silvio  Pellico's  Im- 
prisonment,' "  interposed  Edith,  "  you  will  recall  the 
touching  story  he  tells  of  a  young  Italian  nobleman,  who 
was  thrown  by  the  Austrian  government  into  the  dismal 
castle  of  Spielburg,  where  he  perished  for  no  other  crime 
than  that  of  loving  his  country.  Sister,  you  remember 
the  ballad  that  relates  the  incident." 

In  a  low,  musical  voice — that  more  "  excellent  thing  in 
woman"  than  even  beauty  of  face  or  form — low,  yet  won- 
derfully distinct  to  its  faintest  utterances,  Zilpha  recited 

THE  MARTYR  OF  LIBERTY. 

In  a  lone  and  dreary  fortress, 

Buried  from  the  light  of  day, 
From  the  pleasant,  loving  sunshine. 


810  SILVEKWOOD. 

And  the  free  air's  gladden'd  play, 
Where  no  human  sound  could  reach  him, 

Save  the  weary  monotones 
Of  the  sentinels  whose  footsteps 

Dully  echoed  o'er  the  stones, 
Lay  the  young  and  noble  victim 

Of  the  Austrian's  tyrant  law. 
Worn  with  slow  consuming  sickness, 

On  his  meagre  bed  of  straw. 

Oft  he  strove  to  press  his  forehead 

With  his  pallid  hand,  in  vain  ; 
For  the  wrist,  so  thin  and  pulseless, 

Could  not  lift  its  heavy  chain  ; 
Though  his  lips  were  parched  and  burning. 

While  the  quenchless  fever  raged. 
None  had  brought  him  cooling  water. 

That  his  thirst  might  be  assuaged  : 
And  through  many  a  sleepless  night-watch. 

Did  his  tender  spirit  groan 
O'er  the  dim,  unmeasured  anguish, 

Borne  so  utterly  alone. 

From  beneath  the  fair,  blue  arches 

Of  his  own  Italian  sky. 
Dragged  from  country,  home,  and  kindred. 

They  had  thrust  him  here  to  die  : 
Not  because  his  young  existence 

Had  been  stained  by  crime  and  guilt, — 
Not  because  with  murderous  weapon 

He  his  fellows'  blood  had  spilt : — 
But  he  learned  to  think  that  freedom 

W^as  a  guerdon  cheaply  bought 
By  the  lives  of  slaughtered  heroes, 

And — he  dared  to  speak  the  thought ! 


CASTLEHEAD.  i  t 

And  for  this, — for  this  they  bore  him 

Where  no  arm  could  reach  to  save, 
And  with  youth's  warm  flush  about  him, 

Plunged  him  in  a  living  grave  ; — 
Strove  to  bury  in  a  dungeon, 

From  the  dangerous  view  of  men, 
Thoughts  whose  grasp  might  fling  the  despot 

From  his  rocking  throne  again  : 
But  the  silent,  subtle  essence 

Cannot  thus  be  chained  at  will ; 
Midst  Italian  hills  and  valleys, 

Thrills  the  quickening  influence  still ! 

Yet  the  captive  pined  and  wasted, — 

Thirsted  for  his  native  air, — 
Sickened  for  the  home  of  childhood, 

And  ttie  dear,  sweet  faces  there, — 
Yearned  so  longingly  to  enter 

At  the  old  familiar  door, — 
See  his  mother's  tear  of  greeting — 

Clasp  his  father's  hand  once  more  ; 
And  he  murmured,  as  the  vision 

Rose  before  his  restless  eye, — 
"  Oh  !  to  hear  their  voices  breathing 

Blessings  on  me  ere  I  die  ! 

"  Oh  !  to  lay  beneath  the  sunshine 

Of  my  own  bright  land  of  song, 
The  decaying,  fleshly  garment 

That  my  soul  has  worn  so  long ! 
Can  I  think,  that  in  the  shadow 

By  my  prison-fortress  made,  { 

It  will  rest  as  it  had  rested 

Underneath  the  Lime-trees'  shade  ? 


8  i2  SILVER  WOOD. 

Can  its  sleep  be  as  unbroken, 

With  yon  stony  pavement  prest 
By  the  iron  heel  of  soldiers, 

Sternly  laid  above  my  breast  1 

"  Thou  who  shrank'st  with  human  shrinking 

From  Thine  anguish,  and  didst  pray 
That  the  cup  of  bitterest  sorrow 

From  Thy  lips  might  pass  away, — 
Hear  me,  while  my  fainting,  breaking 

Spirit  would  before  Thee  bow, 
Pleading  for  the  strength  to  offer 

Thy  divine  petition  now  : 
Yet  the  cup,  untaken  from  Thee, 

Thou  didst  drain,  oh  !   suffering  One  ! 
Give  me  then  Thy  heavenly  patience, — • 

Let  me  say — '  Thy  will  be  done  !'  " 

In  the  deep  and  fearful  midnight 

As  the  lonely  captive  lay 
Panting  in  the  silent  darkness, 

Longing  for  a  gleam  of  day — 
Burst  a  flood  of  light  celestial, 

Through  the  dungeon's  murky  cell, 
"WTiile  an  angel,  hovering  o'er  him. 

Touched  his  fetters — and  they  fell ! 
And  the  free,  rejoicing  spirit, — 

Every  weight  of  bondage  o'er. 
Sought  that  bright  and  better  country 

Where  oppression  comes  no  more  ! 

*#The  fires  of  day  had  been  quenched  beneath  the  west- 
ern horizon  before  Zilpha  had  finished,  and  ah'eady  in  the 


CASTLEHEAD.  Si8 

eastern  sky  began  to  creep  up  the  ashen  gray  of  twilight 
as  they  all  took  their  way  down  the  mountain  footpath. 
Uncle  Felix  had  fallen  asleep  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  he 
started  up  in  some  alarm  at  the  sound  of  their  voices,  rub- 
bing his  eyes,  and  in  evident  doubts  as  to  his  whereabouts. 
The  party  was  soon  remounted,  and  making  its  way  with 
care  down  the  indistinct  bridle-path,  w^hen  suddenly 
Edith's  horse  swerved  to  one  side,  scared  by  the  sudden 
whirring  away  of  some  wild  game,  and  before  Dr.  Dubois 
could  grasp  the  rein,  he  plunged  on  down  the  steep  de- 
scent. The  doctor  and  Mr.  Phillips  followed  as  fast,  and 
through  the  dim  silence  of  the  woods  the  crashing  tramp 
of  their  horse's  hoofs  reverberated,  mingled  with  Jacque- 
line's womanish  screams,  and  Uncle  Felix's  terrified  cry. 
In  the  dumbness  of  her  fright,  Zilpha  had  dropped  her  bri- 
dle. Mr.  Fleming  seized  it,  and  wdth  all  possible  speed 
they  hastened  on. 

"  Oh,  Edith !  Edith  !"  broke  piteously  from  Zilpha's 
lips  as  she  drooped  over  her  horse's  neck. 

"  '  Be  not  afraid  of  sudden  terror ;'  the  horse  and  his  ri- 
der are  His,"  w^as  all  her  companion  could  find  time  to 
say. 

They  very  soon  emerged  from  the  forest,  upon  one  of  the 
clearings,  and  across  it  they  could  see  the  group.  The 
frightened  animal  had  been  secured,  but  Edith  lay  stretched 
on  the  ground.  A  groan  escaped  Zilpha  as  she  thr#^ 
herself  upon  her  sister, 


344  SILVERWOOD. 

*'  What  is  it,  doctor  ?  tell  me  all — tell  me  if  she  is  dead  I' 

"Oh,  no,  no — only  fainting  I  hope — fainting  from  fright 
and  pain.  Unloose  her  gaiter.  Miss  Zilpha  ;  her  ancle  has 
received  a  wrench ;  I'm  afraid  it  is  dislocated." 

''  Thank  G-od !"  breathed  Zilpha  audibly,  as  she  in- 
stantly removed  the  boot. 

"  Here,  Mr.  Phillips — Mr.  Fleming — your  aid.  Please 
be  quiet,  Jacqueline,"  and  with  one  strong  effort  the  an- 
cle was  restored. 

The  intense  pain  brought  Edith  back  to  consciousness, 
and    with    an    agonizing  "OA/"   she    opened    her    eyes. 

"Bless  God,  dearest,"  said  Zilpha,  embracing  her  while 
her  warm  tears  dropped  over  the  upturned  face.  "  Bless 
Him  that  it  is  no  worse  !" 

"  I  do — I  do.  I  have  been  so  terrified  !  but,  sister — sis- 
ter— I  shall  be  lamed  for  life  !" 


XXIIII. 


They  were  gone — Dr.  Dubois,  and  his  sister,  and  Mr. 
Fleming :  it  was  the  first  night  after  their  departure,  and 
Edith  lay  on  the  sofa  in  the  parlor,  still  helpless  from  her 
recent  injury,  which,  however,  was  of  a  slighter  charac- 
ter than  she  had  at  first  anticipated.  The  disablement 
was  only  temporary,  and  though  it  had  confined  her  to 
the  sofa  for  some  days,  and  been  the  occasion  of  the 
breaking  up  of  an  excursion  or  two,  which  they  had 
planned  for  their  friends,  to  other  localities  of  interest  in 
their  neighborhood,  it  had  called  forth  the  most  delicate 
and  gentle  solicitude  on  the  part  of  Dr.  Dubois.  He  had 
hovered  about  her  with  unremitting  care,  and,  in  a  thou- 
sand little  ways,  shown  his  consideration  for  her  comfort. 
Mr.  Fleming,  too,  came  daily  out  from  Milburne,  and, 
while  Zilpha  was  busy  in  the  school-room — conceiving 
that  her  duty  to  their  pupils  took  precedence  of  that  to 
their   visitors,   and,  therefore,    remitting   no   lessons — he 

15 


346  SILVERWOOD. 

would  read  to  her,  or  entertain  her  with  pleasant  talk. 
Even  Jacqueline  w^as  moved  to  some  self-forgetfulnesSy 
and,  several  times,  insisted  on  taking  the  book  from  Mr. 
Fleming,  and  reading  in  his  stead.  "  Nothing  is  without 
its  uses,"  Mrs.  Irvine  had  said;  "  for  you  see,  my  dear,  if 
the  accident  had  not  occurred,  your  own  warm  glow  of 
gratitude  would  not  have  been  called  forth,  and  you 
would  not  have  needed  the  tender  ministrations  of  your 
friends — ministrations  it  has  been  of  as  much  service  to 
them  to  render,  as  to  you  to  receive.  It  was  from  the 
smitten  rock  that  the  refreshino^  water  flowed." 

The  moonlight  streamed  through  the  wide-open  win- 
dows, over  the  faces  of  the  tw^o  sisters,  as  they  looked  out 
upon  the  wreaths  of  mist  that  were  stealthily  creeping  up 
the  gray  sides  of  Castlehead  ;  each  silent,  and  lost,  appa- 
rently, in  abstracted  thought. 

"  Zilpha,"  said  Edith,  at  length,  raising  herself  on  her 
elbow,  and  bringing  back  her  eyes  to  the  pure,  quiet  face 
before  her  ;   "Zilpha,  it  is  a  hard  thing  to  do." 

"What,  my  dear?" 

"  To  crush  out  forever  all  the  love  and  hope  we  may 
have  inspired  in  an  ingenuous  and  trusting  heart.  The 
thought  of  it  gives  me  a  pang,  to-night,  that  I  cannot  get- 
rid  of." 

"  Then  you  have  done  it  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  by  my  actions  I  hoped  I  had  given  suflicient 
intimation  of  my  true  feelings  to  avert  any  necessity  for 


MOONLIGHT  KEVELATIOXS.  847 

spoken  words  ;  but  they  were  misconstrued.  My  decision, 
I  believe,  was  hardly  less  painful  to  myself  than  to  him. 
The  doctor  needs  but  a  deep,  earnest  piety,  to  make  him 
every  way  admirable.  And,  Zilpha,  when  he  plead  with 
such  strong  emotion,  and  told  me,  in  reply  to  this  obstacle 
I  had  mentioned — this  want  of  a  steady  faith — that  / 
could  teach  him  to  love  G-od,  and  to  understand  the  princi- 
ples by  which  I  professed  to  be  governed,  as  none  other 
could,  I  was  so  touched,  that  he  thought  my  determina- 
tion shaken.  Men  never  will  believe  what  a  keenness  of 
pain  it  occasions  a  true  woman's  heart,  to  place  back  in 
the  hands  of  the  offerer  the  most  precious  gift  a  human 
being  has  it  in  his  power  to  bestow.  After  all  the  gentle, 
unobtrusive  kindness  I  have  received  from  him,  to  be 
forced  to  wound  him  thus  !  But  I  did  it  with  tears, 
Zilpha  ;— like  me,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Yery  like." 

"  You  would  have  done  it  with  a  prayer — a  benediction. 
Well,  I  did  that,  too  ;  and  Grod  ivill  bless  him  :  he  is  too 
earnest  a  spirit  not  to  find  his  way  to  the  light." 

"  Had  he  been  what  you  desired  in  a  religious  point, 
would  the  result  have  been  different  ?" 

"  No." 

''Why  not?" 

Edith  sat  up,  and  looked  into  her  sister's  eyes. 

"  Zilpha,  I  must  surrender  into  the  hands  of  him  whom 
T  would    love,   my  very  self — my   heart   of  hearts — my 


348  SILVERWOOD. 

whole  being.  T  must  obey  him — not  because  it  is  the 
requirement,  but  because  I  feel  such  obedience  to  be  the 
sweetest  thing  in  the  world.  I  hardly  quarrel  with  Mil- 
ton's assertion — 

"  '  He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him' — 

as  derogatory  to  woman,  for  there  would  be  no  humilia- 
tion— at  least,  /  should  be  conscious  of  none — in  the 
willing  deference  rendered  to  a  man  I  owned  to  be  intel- 
lectually, intelligently,  physically,  morally,  my  superior. 
What  humiliation  does  the  loving,  all-confiding  child  feel 
in  leaning  for  everything,  venturing  everything,  upon  the 
father  she  doats  on  ?  I  am  disgusted  with  this  rant  about 
the  servility  of  a  wife's  obedience,  on  which  some  of  the 
sensible  women  even  of  this  generation  have  gone  mad. 
As  if  'perfect  love'  did  not  'cast  out  fear!'  They  who 
talk  and  feel  this  way,  have  not  yet  learned  the  alphabet 
of  love,  human  or  divine.  They  forget  that  Grod's  abso- 
lute sovereignty  is  the  true  Christian's  ground  of  serenest 
confidence,  because  he  unites  with  it  the  thought  of  His 
absolute  love,  and  '  there  is  no  fear  in  love.' " 

"  But  you  would  not  have  the  wife  the  mere  passive 
recipient — the  v^ax  to  the  seal — without  tastes,  and  opin- 
ions, and  emotions  of  her  own  ?" 

"  By  no  means  !  no  more  than  I  would  have  every 
branch,  and  tendril,  and  curl  of  the  vine  wound  rigidly 
round  the  supporting  oak,  thereby  spoiling  all  the  grace- 


MOONLIGHT   REVELATIONS.  349 

fulness  of  its  appropriate  proportions,  and  the  oneness  of 
its  identity.  But  the  faith  of  love,  in  its  object,  must  be 
kindred  to  the  Christian's  faith  in  Grod — unquestioning, 
immovable.  When  it  is  so,  willing  obedience  must  be  a 
heart-delight — a  very  blessedness." 

"  But  might  not  such  an  entireness  of  trust — such  a 
complete  repose  of  the  being  upon  a  creature,  subject  to 
the  same  errors  and  weaknesses  as  ourselves — be  danger- 
ous ? — a  putting  of  the  human  between  us  and  Grod  ?" 

"It  is  the  position  in  which  Paul  places  the  wife,  and 
must,  therefore,  be  no  less  right  than  safe  ;  besides, 
heart-subjection  is  a  different  thing  from  soul-subjection. 
Of  the  latter,  ^ou  would  never  be  in  any  danger,  Zilpha ;  I 
feel  that  I  might,  and  yet  I  don't  know.  The  very  inten- 
sity of  my  love  would  keep  me  too  keenly  alive  to  the  least 
defeature  in  the  beloved  one,  that,  instead  of  being  blinded 
into  idolatry,  my  acuteness  of  vision  would  be  apt  to 
magnify  slight  defects,  and  thus  make  me  ever  too  much 
aware  of  the  human,  to  bend  down  in  overweening  rever- 
ence. Now,  to  reply  to  your  question :  I  could  not  have 
had  all  this  feeling  towards  Dr.  Dubois.  While  he  is  self- 
reliant,  and  manly,  and  forms  opinions  for  himself,  he  did 
not  hold  in  his  hands  the  clue  that  could  have  guided  me. 
I  should,  in  time,  come  to  exercise  too  much  influence 
over  such  a  character  ;  in  plain  words,  he  could  never 
make  me  know  the  heart-satisfaction  of  being  better,  and 
more  wisely  governed  than  I  could  govern  myself." 


350  silvp:rwood. 

The  sisters  sat  silent  for  awhile. 

"  I  have  been  listening  to  your  confessions,  dear  Edith," 
began  Zilpha,  hesitatingly,  playing,  as  she  spoke,  with  the 
long,  dark  hair  that  hung  loosely  over  her  sister's  forehead, 
"  and  it  is  my  turn  now.  Will  you  not  remove  your  em- 
bargo of  silence,  and  let  me  tell  you  of  what  interests  me 
so  deeply  ?" 

^'  I  believe  I  have  been  very  selfish,  very  unsisterly," 
replied  Edith,  as  she  folded  her  arms  about  Zilpha,  ''in 
shutting  your  confidence  so  away  from  me.  Forgive  me, 
and  tell  me  all." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  my  dear ;  but  if  it  will 
pain  you,  I  don't  like  to  speak." 

"  I  shall  teach  what  makes  you  happy,  to  make  me  so 
too.     Go  on." 

''  I  do  long  to  see  you  more  tranquilly  so,  for  often  I 
fear  you  are  not.  But  now  that  you  have  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  judging  for  yourself,  without  any  bias  exercised 
on  my  part,  tell  me  truly,  whether  you  think  him  worthy 
of  all  my  love." 

''Him?  who?"  exclaimed  Edith,  starting  bolt  upright 
from  her  reclining  posture. 

"  Mr.  Fleming,  of  course." 

"  Mr.  Fleming !  I  have  all  along  thought  you  loved 
Bryant !"  and  in  a  maze  of  revulsed  feeling,  Edith  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sank  back  upon  the  sofa. 

Zilpha  did  not  speak,  for  her  own   astonishment  at  the 


MOONLIG-HT    EEVELATIONS.  851 

misconception  was  quite  as  great  as  her  sister's.  A  new 
thought  flashed  in  upon  her  mind  that  had  never  occurred 
to  her  before — a  thought  that  made  her  murmur  to  her- 
self, "dear,  dear  Edith!" 

After  a  few  minutes  embarrassed  silence,  her  hands 
were  seized  with  a  tight  pressure. 

"  Tell  me — Bryant  loves  you,  does  he  not?  Hasn't  he 
told  you  so  ?" 

There  was  no  evasion  of  so  direct  a  question. 

"  Yes ;  he  told  me  so  when  we  separated  at  Charleston, 
last  December." 

"  And  you  ?"— 

"  Confessed  to  him  just  the  simple  truth.  I  had  always 
regarded  him  with  a  warm,  sisterly  affection,  putting  him 
only  second  to  Lawrence  in  that  respect ;  and  I  told  him 
I  was  conscious  of  no  other  emotion  towards  him  then. 
But  he  would  not  let  the  matter  terminate  thus.  He  be- 
lieved the  seeds  of  love  for  him  were  in  my  heart,  and 
that  with  proper  fostering  they  would  blossom  in  time.  I 
was  in  doubt ;  so  I  yielded  to  his  entreaties,  and  left  the 
matter  open.  Not  many  weeks  after  this,  I  met  Mr. 
Fleming ;  and  I  was  not  long  in  learning  from  my  own 
heart,  that  love  was  not  a  seed,  as  Bryant  would  have  had 
me  suppose,  which  time  and  circumstances  could  develope 
into  beautiful  life,  but  a  miraculous  plant,  which  requires 
no  slow  process  to  unfold  its  powers — an  amaranthine 
flower,  which  expands  like  the  night-blooming  Cereus,  at 
once^  into  marvellous  and  perfect  loveliness." 


852  SILVERWOOD. 

"  xA.nd  you  had  to  break  hjs  noble  heart  by  telling  him 
this !" 

"No,  not  break,  only  boiv  it.  It  is  too  elastic  not  to 
rise  in  all  its  fair  and  native  strength  as  soon  as  the  pres- 
sure is  removed.  I  am  not  suited  to  Bryant,  Edith.  I 
am  too  calm,  too  quiet  for  his  buoyant,  imaginative  tem- 
perament." 

"  People  always  love  their  antipodes — there  is  a  diversi- 
ty that  is  harmonious," 

"  I  don't  think  they  do ;  besides,  our  tastes  are  very 
diverse.  He  never  could  have  interested  me  in  his  chosen 
studies — in  his  liking  for  old  lore — in  all  his  scholarly 
habitudes,  up  to  the  degree  that  would  have  satisfied  him." 

"  Yet  he  is  a  teacher  of  the  noblest  of  sciences:  surely, 
there  you  could  have  gone  hand  in  hand." 

"  Yes,  I  am  sure  of  it ;  but  still  we  each  have  our  dif- 
ferent way  of  looking  upon  life,  and  I  doubt  whether  I 
ever  could  have  found  the  key  to  all  his  being,  or  he  to 
mine.  He  is  book  wise,  and  best  loves  those  who  sympa- 
thize in  that  respect  with  him,  as  companions.  I  have 
often  noticed  that  the  poem  or  the  passage  that  filled  him 
with  a  tumult  of  enthusiastic  feeling,  would  leave  me 
quite  unimpressed." 

"  Yet,  Mr.  Fleming  has  been  a  student  at  a  Grerman 
University — something  quite  beyond  Brya*nt." 

"  Yes,  a  student  of  mathematics,  and  astronomy,  and 
science ;    for   while   he  is  not   quite   indifferent   to   the 


MOONLIGHT  KEVELATIONS.  853 

ancients,  he  likes  the  moderns  better ;  and  though  he 
might  own  to  some  admiration  for  Schiller  or  G-oethe,  no 
doubt  Euler  is  more  to  his  mind  ;  and  I  dare  say  he  at- 
tended Farraday's  lectures,  when  in  England,  while  he 
wouldn't  have  gone  a  mile  out  of  his  way  to  see  Words- 
worth. All  this  better  suits  me,  for  you  know  that  nature, 
the  outer  world,  has  always  been  more  interesting  to  me 
than  the  inner  world  of  man's  life.  But  you  haven't  told 
me  yet,  Edith,  whether  Mr.  Fleming  would  have  been 
your  choice  for  me  ?    whether  he  has  your  approbation  ?" 

"He  is  rich  ;  he  is  handsome  ;  he  has  a  princely  bear- 
ing." 

"  Ah  !    don't  name  those  little  things." 

"  He  has  a  clear,  vigorous  mind ;  he  is  thoroughly  cul- 
tivated ;  he  has  a  generous,  strong,  noble  heart ;  and  above 
all,  and  for  which  I  liked  him  best,  he  has  as  lowly  and 
reverent  a  Christian  faith  as  I  ever  knew." 

"  Dear  Edith,"  said  Zilpha,  kissing  her,  "  you  have  gone 
far  enough  ;  I  am  satisfied.  He  is  indeed  so  good.  That 
firm  faith  of  his,  was  of  such  comfort  to  our  darling 
brother,  and  such  a  support  to  me.  I  could  not  choose 
but  love  him  for  all  his  inexpressible  tenderness  to  me  in 
my  affliction,  away  from  you  all.  He  made  my  grief  so 
truly  his  own,  that  my  whole  heart  went  out  to  him,  for 
he  seemed  mother,  brother,  sister,  in  one,  so  sweet  and 
precious  was  his  consolation." 

The  moon  climbed  higher  into  the  heavens ;  the  white 
15^ 


854  SILVERWOOD. 

barred  clouds  obscured  her  disk,  quenching  out  all  the 
glory  of  the  sleeping  landscape,  or  floated  with  slow  ma- 
jesty away,  leaving  all  beneath  them  bathed  in  a  splendor 
the  more  brilliant  from  its  sudden  contrast  with  the  cur- 
taining darkness  just  withdrawn.  The  silver-touched 
mists  crept  farther  and  farther  up  the  mountains'  sides, 
till  their  tops  only  were  visible,  like  far-off  islands  in  the 
measureless  ocean  of  blue.  In  the  changing  and  chasing 
light  and  shadow,  the  sisters  sat  with  encircling  arms,  and 
cheek  pressed  to  cheek,  while  Zilpha  recounted  with  lin- 
gering minuteness  the  history  of  her  love. 

''  But  to  give  you  up  to  another,"  sighed  Edith,  when 
her  sister  had  finished — "  to  learn  to  live  without  you — 
that  will  be  so  hard  I" 

"  I  am  not  to  be  given  up  yet,  my  dear.  For  though 
Mr.  Fleming  pressed  a  home  for  you  all,  with  him,  upon 
mother,  her  native  independence  made  her  shrink  from  the 
obligation  she  thought  it  would  impose  ;  so  I  have  told 
him,  that  for  the  present,  my  duty  lies  here.  Circum- 
stances may  change  in  a  year's  time." 

"  What  circumstances  could  take  place  that  would 
make  it  any  easier  to  give  you  up  then  than  now  ?" 

"We  cannot  guess  at  the  future.      You  may  marry." 

"J/  No,  Zilpha;"  and  there  was  a  bitterness  in  Edith's 
tones,  and  yet  a  pathos  that  was  half  tearful — "  no;  my 
destiny  is  to  be  cast  among  the  unblessed  sisterhood — un- 
blessed of  earth,  but  recognized  of  Grod,  as  having  among 


MOONLIGHT   REVELATIONS.  £>0D 

them  some  of  his  purest  and  most  sainted  ones,  who 
learn  to  live  outside  of  themselves — who  labor  for  no 
rewardins^  love — who  teach  their  hearts  to  be  content  with 
the  questionable  warmth  reflected  from  the  happiness  of 
others — " 

"  I  protest  against  any  such  self-immolation  to  the 
great  Moloch  of  this  imagined  destiny,"  said  Zilpha,  with 
a  smile.  "  You  are  too  young,  at  all  events,  to  be  devoted, 
even  as  a  willing  victim,  yet  awliile  ;  so  shut  your  eyes, 
dear,  to  this  ogre  of  the  Hereafter^  and  be  satisfied  to 
meet  the  demands  of  the  ever-pressing  Noiv^ 

When  Zilpha  opened  her  Bible  the  next  morning  for 
her  accustomed  reading,  she  found  the  following  lines  laid 
between  its  leaves  : 

A  cloud  s  on  my  heart,  darling, 

A  shade  is  on  my  brow, 
And  the  low  current  of  my  thoughts 

Is  gUding  sadly  now  ; 
The  careless  smile  comes  seldomer 

Than  it  was  wont  to  come, 
And  when  the  playful  jest  goes  round, 

My  lips  are  strangely  dumb. 

I  meet  your  lifted  eyes,  darling — 

Their  look  is  mildly  gay — 
But  beaded  drops  are  on  my  cheek. 

And  I  must  turn  away  ; 
And  often,  when  you  speak  to  me, 

With  softness  in  your  tone, 


356  SILVER  WOOD. 

'Tis  silence  only  that  can  hide 
The  faltering  of  my  own. 

You  do  not  know  how  fond,  darling, 

Are  all  the  thoughts  you  share  ; 
You  cannot  think  how  sobbingly 

I  breathe  your  name  in  prayer. 
And  plead  that  God  will  teach  me  how, 

Unmurmuring  to  resign 
That  inmost  sympathy  of  soul 

I've  claimed  so  long  as  mine. 

From  very  childhood's  years,  darling. 

We've  known  no  separate  joy ; 
Whatever  grieved  your  spirit,  brought 

To  mine  the  same  annoy. 
Together,  o'er  one  page  we  bent ; 

Our  kindred  hearts  have  strayed 
Together  through  life's  summer  walks. 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade. 

But  now  our  paths  diverge,  darling — 

A  thought  I  cannot  share 
Has  seized  your  heart's  high  sovereignty, 

And  rules  supremely  there. 
Yet  while,  as  if  discrowned  of  love, 

I  feel  an  exile's  pain, 
Believe  me,  that  I  question  not 

That  sovereign's  right  to  reign. 

But  yet  the  tears  will  come,  darling, 
Soft-dropping,  sad,  and  slow ; 

How  can  I,  when  you  are  so  dear — 
How  can  I  let  you  go  1 


MOONLIGHT  REVELATIONS.  857 

For  never  seemed  your  silent  kiss 

So  tender  on  my  brow, 
And  never  clung  my  soul  to  you 

So  yearningly  as  now. 

You  are  too  rich  in  love,  darling, 

To  feel  a  sense  of  need, 
Should  mine  be  lessened  to  you  now  ; 

But  I  were  poor,  indeed. 
If  from  my  hoardings  were  withdrawn 

Your  sweet,  imparted  store — 
For  I,  with  craving  want,  should  feel 

Heart-hunger  evermore. 

Yet  home  must  lose  its  charms,  darling, 

As  fast  the  years  come  on ; 
And,  one  by  one,  my  best  beloved 

Will  go — till  all  are  gone ! 
'Tis  but  the  common  work  of  time 

To  mar  our  household  so. 
And  I  must  learn  to  choke  the  sob, 

And  smile  to  see  them  go. 

Forgive  these  sadden'd  strains,  darling — 

Forgive  these  eyes  so  dim  ; 
I  must — rmist  love  whom  you  have  loved — 

So  I  will  turn  to  him  ; 
And  clasping  with  a  seeming  clasp, 

Whose  tenderness  endears. 
Your  hand  and  his  between  my  own, 

I  bless  you  through  my  tears. 


XXXIV. 

Clflubs  "^.timw  after  tljc  ^iiin. 

It  was  an  evening  late  in  September.  The  pupils,  who 
were  gone  home  for  their  fall  vacation,  had  not  yet  re- 
turned, and,  in  their  absence,  the  old  quiet  brooded  once 
more  over  Silverwood.  Mrs.  Irvine,  Zilpha,  and  Edith, 
sat  together  round  the  evening  lamp,  busy  in  their  several 
ways — one  sewing,  another  writing  a  letter,  another  ex- 
amining a  new  series  of  school-books. 

All  that  day  an  unusual  disturbance  had  rested  on  Mrs. 
Irvine's  face,  and,  though  it  had  not  escaped  her  children's 
observation,  they  had  not  spoken  of  it.  It  was  not  her 
way,  they  well  knew,  to  talk  of  what  troubled  her  when 
no  end  was  to  be  gained  by  it  beyond  the  mere  relief  of 
talking  ;  and  so  they  had  forborne  to  ask  the  cause.  Again 
and  again  would  she  lay  down  her  work,  as  if  about 
to  speak,  and  then  resume  it,  without  doing  so.  Then 
she  would  pause,  as  if  in  dreamy  abstraction,  while  the 
needle  dropped  from  her  listless  fingers,  and  her  uncon- 


360  SILVERWOOD. 

scious  eyes,  from  which  the  soul  seemed  gone  away,  wan- 
dered to  the  glowing  hearth  with  a  weary  fixedness. 
Zilpha  laid  aside  her  pen,  and  sat  down  on  a  low  seat  at 
her  mother's  knee. 

"  Mother  ^dear,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  restrainingly 
over  the  ones  that  had  lifted  the  work  again,  "  I  am 
afraid  you  are  worn  out,  or  sick.  This  endless  occupation 
is  too  much  for  you.  You  are  not  so  cheerful  to-day,  and 
we  cannot  bear  to  see  you  otherwise." 

"  Yes;"  and  Edith  swept  away  her  hooks,  and  dropped 
on  the  carpet  at  her  mother's  other  side — "  yes,  mother, 
when  our  heart-light  is  clouded,  everything  looks  sombre. 
Its  cheeriness  is  far  more  needful  to  us  than  the  common 
sunshine." 

There  were  tears  in  Mrs.  Irvine's  eyes  as  she  laid  a 
hand  on  each  dear  head. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  grieve  you,"  she  said,  speaking  with 
difficulty.    "These  poor  heads  have  had  enough  to  bow 
them  already  ;  but  you  will  have  to  know  it." 
-     "What? — what?"  they  both  cried,  beginning  to  feel 
alarmed. 

"  Be  calm,  my  dears — " 

"You  are  ill;  yes,  your  hand  is  dry  and  hot,  and  there 
is  a  languor  about  all  your  movements  lately  that  is  not 
natural." 

"I  will  send  for  Dr.  Forsythe,  at  once,"  said  Edith, 
springing  up  hurriedly.     "  Oh  !  why  did  you  not  tell  us  ? 


THE   CLOUDS   KETURN  AFTER   THE   KAIN.  861 

Why  have  we  not  seen  ourselves  that  you  ought  not  to 
have  heen  wearying  and  working  yourself  down — " 

"  No,  my  child,"  interrupted  her  mother,  detaining  her, 
^'  you  need  not  send  for  the  doctor  to-night,  at  least ;  I 
believe  I  am  more  than  half-sick,  yet  that  is  not  it.  But 
quiet  yourselves,  and  I  will  not  keep  you  any  longer  in 
suspense. 

"You  have  often  heard  dear  Lawrence  speak  of  his 
college- friend,  Waldron,  who  acted  such  a  brother's  part 
in  nursing  him  through  the  severe  attack  of  illness  he  had 
whilst  they  were  students  together  ;  and  you  may  remem- 
ber— though  perhaps  it  was  not  mentioned  to  you — that 

just  immediately  before  our  misfortunes  at  B ,  that  he 

was  applied  to  by  this  friend  to  become  his  security  for  a 
loan  of  some  four  thousand  dollars  which  he  wanted  to  ef- 
fect. "Waldron  was  poor,  but  energetic  and  honorable,  and 
Lawrence  felt  so  sincere  an  interest  in  him,  and  under  so 
much  obligation  to  him,  that  he  could  not  hesitate,  espe- 
cially as  he  conceived  that  he  was  running  no  risk  in  the 
matter ;  so,  with  my  approbation,  he  consented  to  do  it. 
Within  a  couple  of  months  Waldron  has  suddenly  died, 
leaving  the  loan  unpaid,  and  nothing  to  meet  it  with.  As 
Silver  wood  was  left  by  your  father  to  Lawrence,  it  will 
have  to  become  liable  for  the  debt.  Here  is  the  lawyer's 
letter,"  and  she  drew  one  from  her  pocket.  *•  You  can  see 
for  yourselves  what  he  says." 

All  this  was  said  hurriedly,  yet  with  pauses  for  breath, 
as  if  the  uttering  of  it  had  exhausted  her. 


862  SILVERWOOD. 

^'  Homeless — homeless  I"  burst  from  Edith,  as  she 
dropped  her  face  full  of  surprise  and  distress  upon  her 
mother's  lap.  Zilpha  read- the  letter  with  a  rigid  brow 
and  compressed  lip,  but  her  large  open  eyes  were  filled 
with  quiet  tears,  as  they  turned  again  to  the  patient  face 
looking  down  upon  her. 

"Poor  mother,"  she  said,  fondling  the  arm  that  languid- 
ly rested  on  her  shoulder.      "  For  you  this  is  so  hard  !" 

"It  is  for  your  sakes,  my  darlings,  I  am  grieved. 
Sometimes,  to-day,  I  could  not  keep  back  the  thought — if 
my  dead  boy  were  only  here  I  But  there  is  a  dearer,  a 
stronger  than  he.     Let  us  lean  on  Him." 

"  We  have  surely  need  of  his  support  now  !" 

"  Has  he  not  forgotten  to  be  gracious  ?"  asked  Edith, 
hopelessly. 

"  No,  no,  my  child  ;  that  he  will  never  do.  '  Though 
He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  Him.'  We  need  the  night 
in  order  to  see  the  stars ;  we  need  darkness  about  our 
path  to  constrain  us  to  look  aloft  to  the  shining  promises. 
'  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd ;  I  shall  not  want ;'  he  will 
never  forsake  or  forget  His  own." 

"Yet  He  is  stripping  us  bare,"  sighed  Edith. 

"  That  we  may  be  clothed  upon  with  the  better  gar- 
ments of  His  providing.  Dear  Zilpha  I  dear  Edith  !  the 
way  is  but  a  short  one,  at  best  I  What  if  it  is  a  little  rough 
and  uneven  ?  We  can  surely  put  up  with  the  inconve- 
niences of  the  inn,  since  '  the  prepared  mansions'  in  our 


THE  CLOUDS   RETURN   AFTER   THE    RAIN.  B63 

Father's  house  are  not  very  far  off.  Only  a  little  while, 
and  then  we  shall  have  a  home  we  can  no  more  lose — a 
home  where  your  darling  father,  and  our  precious  Law- 
rence will  hail  our  coming.  Ah !  that  thought  is  very, 
very  sweet !" 

"  If  we  could  only  save  you  the  roughnesses,  dearest 
mother,"  said  Zilpha,  "  how  willingly  would  we  do  it  !" 

"  That  is  not  the  way,  my  child — 'the  parents  for  the 
children.'     But  you  will  have  to  bear  them  the  longest." 

They  both  looked  up  at  her.  It  was  not  usual  for  her 
ever  to  grieve  them  by  any  allusions  to  the  possibility  of 
losins^  her. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  she  went  on  quietly.  "I  shall, 
I  hope,  feel  better  to-morrow.  We  must  talk  a  little  more 
about  our  aftairs.  Of  course,  this  liability  must  be  met 
by  making  arrangements  for  the  selling  of  the  old  home- 
stead here.  I  will  write,  however,  to  Bryant,  and  get  him 
to  attend  to  the  whole  matter  for  us.  There  will  be  no 
difficulty,  I  trust,  in  getting  the  sale  postponed  till  Spring. 
In  the  meantime  the  little  girls  can  return,  and  we  will 
I  go  on  as  usual  with  our  plans  for  the  winter.  As  soon  as 
the  school-term  is  over,  we  will  all  go  down  to  your  Aunt 
Maria  Irvine's,  as  a  temporary  measure.  There,  Mr.  Flem- 
ing shall  come  to  claim  you,  Zilpha — " 

"  Don't  speak  of  me  leaving  you  in  the  midst  of  trial 
and  perplexity,"  interrupted  Zilpha,  turning  aside  her  glow- 
ing cheek,  ''unless,  indeed,  you  will  consent  to  agree  to 


364  SILVERWOOD. 

the  proposal  that  has  been  already  so  pressed  on  you,  that 
we  all  have  the  same  home." 

''Yes,  let  that  be  the  plan  for  you,  mother,  and  the 
children,"  exclaimed  Edith,  brightening ;  "  and  I — oh,  I 
will  be  strong  in  the  faith  that  strengthens  you ;  I  will 
teach;  I  will  do  more  than  provide  for  myself;  I  will 
help  to  make  you  independent — that  will  be  a  thought 
to  inspirit  me — something  nobly  worth  the  living  for  I" 
and  the  expression  of  the  face,  so  piteously  brave,  brought 
a  compassionate  tear  to  Mrs.  Irvine's  eye. 

"  We  always  have  something  to  live  for,  my  Edith.  It 
is  as  bounden  a  duty  to  suffer  Grod's  will  as  to  do  it,  and 
a  duty  that  may  glorify  him  more  in  the  end,  since  it  is 
the  harder  of  the  two." 

"  But  it  will  be  better  for  me  to  work.  It  will  help 
to  keep  my  heart  stronger." 

"  No,  no,  Edith  ;  you  distress  me  with  that  hopeless, 
sinking  look,"  said  Zilpha.  ^'Youmust  consent  that  it 
shall  be  as  I  say.  Dear  mother,  don't  you  see  the  leadings 
of  Providence  in  it  all  ?" 

"  "Well,  it  shall  all  be  as  He  directs.  Let  us  strive  to 
cross  none  of  His  designs,  and  we  will  find — I  am  perfect- 
ly assured  of  it — we  will  find  that  still,  still,  '  The  Lord 
will  provide.'  " 


XXXV 


^ai'Iiittss  unit  figljt. 


"  Edith  !"  It  was  a  low,  alarmed  kind  of  whisper,  and 
the  obscure  light  of  the  just  breaking  day  was  not  suffi- 
cient to  reveal  who  had  spoken.  Edith  started  up  fright- 
enedly.  Zilpha  stood  at  her  bed-side.  She  had  insisted  on 
sleeping  that  night  in  her  mother's  room,  in  consequence 
of  the  uneasiness  she  had  felt  about  her,  and  now  came  to 
call  her  sister.     She  tried  to  speak  composedly  and  quietly. 

"  I  am  afraid  dear  mother  is  quite  ill.  She  has  had  a 
most  restless  night,  and  I  have  sent  Uncle  Felix  for  the 
doctor." 

Edith  threw  on  her  clothes,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was 
in  her  mother's  chamber.  She  saw  enough  at  a  glance  to 
give  occasion  for  anxiety — the  dry,  burning  hand ;  the 
cord-like  pulse ;  the  purple  flush  of  the  cheeks ;  the  languor 
and  the  pain,  to  which,  all  the  means  Zilpha  and  Aunt 
Rose  had  been  using  had  afforded  no  alleviation. 

*'  It's  my  opinion  ole  Mis's  gwine  to  be  oncommon  bad, 


866  SILVERWOOD. 

Miss  Edith,"  whispered  the  old  servant,  with  the  exagger- 
ating fear  to  which  the  negro  is  given  in  all  cases  of  sick- 
ness. "  She's  done  hurt  herself  looking  a'ter  Silvy  so 
partic'lar,  and  now  she's  like  got  de  fever  heap  worse  nor 
Silvy." 

Uncle  Felix  soon  returned,  but  without  the  physician. 
He  was  not  at  home. 

"Why  didn't  you  think  to  go  for  Dr.  Martin?"  asked 
Zilpha,  anxiously. 

''  Did,  Miss  Zilphy ;  but  he's  done  laid  up  hisself.  Mrs. 
Forsythe  thinlvs  de  doctor  will  be  home  sartain,  very  soon, 
for  he's  been  away  all  night." 

But  it  was  afternoon  before  he  arrived.  Intensely  ques- 
tioning were  the  faces  bent  on  his,  after  his  prolonged  stay 
in  the  sick-chamber ;  but  it  was  hardly  necessary  to  ask 
whether  he  thought  their  mother  very  ill.  The  nature  of 
his  treatment  proved  that. 

Several  days  had  passed  away  without  bringing  any 
abatement  of  the  violent  seizure — days  of  weary  watch- 
ing to  Zilpha  and  Edith,  and  heavy  with  a  nameless  gloom 
to  the  children. 

It  was  late  at  night,  and  Dr.  Forsythe  had  left  them 
without  the  encouragement  they  were  longing  for  from  his 
lips.  Aunt  Rose  and  Daphne  had  come  to  watch,  while 
their  young  mistresses  should  sleep ;  but  intense  anxiety 
had  scared  the  gentle  visitant  too  far  away  to  be  readily 
wooed  back.     Towards  morning  Zilpha  had  occasion  to 


DARKNESS  AKD   LIGHT.  367 

leave  the  room  to  prepare  a  draught,  and  the  tears  that 
had  not  come  hefore,  started  as  she  opened  the  door  into  the 
passage,  and  discovered  old  Uncle  Felix  propped  up  against 
the  wall,  where  he  had  fallen  asleep.  He  sprang  up  as 
the  light  fell  on  his  face. 

"  De  good  Mas'r  above  bless  her.  Miss  Zilphy !  I'se 
afeared  to  ask — don't  tell  me  she's  worse." 

''  I  hope  not ;  but  I'm  afraid  no  better." 

"  I'se  been  prayin'  for  her — de  Lord  bless  her — dat's  all 
/  can  do ;  dat's  what  I  done  did  for  Mas'r  Henry  in  yon 
very  room,  but  my  prayers  was  no  account  dat  time  ;  de 
Lord's  time  was  done  come.  I  dreamed  just  dis  minute 
a  shiny  angel  war  a-comin'  for  her." 

"  An  angel  ivill  come  for  her  when  G-od  sees  fit,"  re- 
plied Zilpha,  with  a  tremulous  voice,  as  she  descended  the 
stairs  ;   "  but  oh  !  may  the  angel's  coming  not  be  now  I" 

How  heavily  wore  away  those  long,  long  night  hours  ! 
The  tick  of  their  mother's  watch ;  the  regular  breathing 
of  the  servants  who  were  dozing  on  the  rug  before  the  fire  ; 
the  restless  flinging  of  the  sufferer's  arms  ;  the  low  moan- 
ing ;  the  occasional  whispered  word  to  each  other ;  the  rust- 
ling of  the  wind  among  the  aspens  before  the  window, 
were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  oppressive  stillness- 
"With  the  quiet  control  peculiar  to  her,  Zilpha  sat  at  her 
mother's  bed-side,  now  holding  the  weary  hands — now 
wetting  the  parched  lips — anticipating  every  want — watch- 
ful of  every  movement — ^lierself  motionless,  and,  externally, 


368  SILVERWOOD. 

perfectly  calm.  Edith  wondered  at  the  subdued,  still  fig- 
ure, as  she  herself  glided  with  a  hushed  step  back  and 
forth  through  the  chamber,  utterly  unable  to  sit  still  and 
bear  in  its  full  force  the  upheaving  of  her  troubled  thoughts 
and  fears.  She  would  pause,  and  look  out  upon  the  moon- 
less night  with  its  sparkling  stars,  and  wish  the  dream  of 
life  were  all  well  over — the  weight  lifted  away  forever, 
and  she  and  her  beloved  ones  beyond  those  points  of  twink- 
ling light  that  burned  so  steadily  on,  unconscious  of  the 
aching  hearts  and  brows  they  shone  upon. 

How  our  weak  natures  chafe  under  the  dull,  inexorable 
pressure  of  grief !  How  we  turn  hither  and  thither  for 
some  avenue  of  escape  I  How  we  pray  for  any  suffering 
rather  than  just  the  one  under  which  our  spirits  are  faint- 
ing !  How  ready  we  are,  like  the  victim  stretched  on  the 
rack,  to  vow  anything,  to  give  up  everything,  if  we  might 
win  thereby  a  suspension  of  the  torture  ! 

Another  day  had  come  and  gone.  Acquaintances  from 
Milburne  had  been  at  Silver  wood  with  offers  of  service, 
and  some  had  remained  during  the  day,  but  they  were 
gone  now.  Zilpha  and  Edith  would  let  no  one  take  their 
place  as  watchers.  They  did  not  feel  weary.  The  mental 
excitement  stimulated  their  physical  powers  till  the  ne- 
cessity for  rest  seemed  taken  away.  The  old  pastor  had 
been  with  them  ;  had  prayed  tenderly  for  them,  and  com- 
mended them  to  the  mercies  of  their  mother's  Grod.  As 
Dr.  Forsythe  left  the  sick-chamber,  Zilpha  followed  him  out. 


DARKNESS  AND    LIGHT.  369 

*'  Tell  me  candidly,  doctor,  what  you  think,"  she  said. 
''  I  am  strong ;  I  will  bear  it  quietly." 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  looked,  upward  at  his  re- 
ply, and  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

^'  God  bless  you,  my  dear !"  exclaimed  the  doctor 
with  an  unsteady  voice,  as  he  hurried  away. 

Edith  was  ascending  the  stairs  at  that  moment.  Zil- 
pha's  wet  eyes  met  her  view,  and  with  a  piteous  cry  she 
threw  herself  into  her  extended  arms. 

"  Oh  !  don't  let  me  hear  it ;  hide  it  from  me  ;  I  cannot, 
cannot  bear  it !" 

"  Yes  you  can,  dear  Edith ;  it  is  blessed  news.  We  have 
not  been  praying  in  vain.  Our  precious  mother  is  better. 
The  doctor  thinks  she  will  recover." 

Oh !  the  terrible,  oppressive  forebodings  that  have  shrunk 
away,  like  sheeted  ghosts  before  the  breaking  dawn — the 
hearts  whose  bleeding  flow  has  been  staunched — the  droop- 
ing heads  that  have  lifted — the  knotted  brows  that  have 
relaxed,  at  that  one  sound — ^''better!-''  Oh!  the  hopes 
that  have  trembled  back  into  glad  life  again — the  ecsta- 
cies  that  have  thrilled  along  the  pulses — the  speechless 
thanksgiving  that  has  been  sobbed  out  over  that  little 
word — "  better  V^ 

The  stupor  had  passed  away.  The  sufferer's  eyes  were 
open  and  intelligent — what  they  had  not  been  for  weary 
hours  before.  She  knew  and  named  each  of  her  children 
as  they  leaned  over  her  and  kissed  her  with  an  emotion 
too  strong  for  words. 

16 


37Q  SILYERWQOD, 

Zilpha  was  the  first  to  command  herself. 

^'  Dearest  mother  !  you  are  better.  Wo  are  so  thank" 
ful !"  but  she  could  not  go  further,  and  Edith's  attempt  to 
speak  expended  itself  in  tears. 

"  Better  !  yes,  for  your  sakes,  my  darlings,  I  thank 
God  that  I  am  ;"  and  she  kissed  them  both  fondly,  again 
and  again.     "  For  my  own,  why  should  I  be  glad  !" 

"  Oh  !  mother  !  mother  !"  cried  Edith,  through  choking 
sobs,  "  be  glad  then  for  us.  We  could  not  live  without 
you." 

''  Yes  you  could,  my  child.  Grod  never  puts  his  be- 
loved in  any  circumstances  in  which  He  does  not  grant 
the  grace  necessary  for  those  circumstances.  Had  He 
taken  me  from  you.  His  grace  would  have  been  sufficient 
for  you." 

"  And  would  you  have  been  willing  to  go,  dear  mother  V 
asked  Zilpha,  tenderly. 

"  For  many  years,  my  child,  it  has  been  my  daily  prayer, 
my  daily  struggle,  to  have  my  own  will  lost  in  Grod's, 
and  I  trust  these  prayers  have  not  been  in  vain.  Yes,  if 
it  is  His  will,  I  think  I  can  go  without  regret." 

"  My  precious  mother,"  sobbed  Edith,  hiding  her  face 
on  her  mother's  neck,  '*  pray,  pray  to  be  spared." 

"  Be  calm,  dear  Edith,"  murmured  Mrs.  Irvine,  faintly, 
as  she  patted  the  head  that  lay  against  her  breast.  ''  If 
my  Heavenly  Father  sees  it  is  best  for  me  to  tarry  longer 
here,  and  stand,  with  what  little  power  I   have  to  shield, 


DARKNESS  AND   LIGHT.  371 

between  my  darlings  and  the  world,  I  am  thankful — I  am 
willing.  If  he  says,  '  leave  thy  fatherless  children  to  me,' 
still,  through  his  grace  assisting  me,  I  can  as  truly  say, 
I  am  willing.  Is  it  in  your  hearts  to  desire  another  frame 
of  mind  for  me  than  this  ?" 

"  I  bless  Christ  for  it  I"  exclaimed  Zilpha,  with  a  tone 
that  proved  the  triumph  of  a  holy  faith  over  her  natural 
feelings. 

Poor  Edith  could  only  reply  by  a  closer  clasp  and  a 
fresh  gush  of  tears. 

"  Those  little  feet !"  sighed  the  pallid  lips  after  a  pause 
for  rest,-  for  she  had  become  exhausted,  and  in  the  interval 
of  silence  she  could  hear  the  sound  of  Eunice's  and  Jose- 
pha's  steps  in  the  next  chamber.  "  Those  little  feet ! 
Sometimes  nature  gets  the  upper  hand — all  the  mother  is 
roused,  and  I  feel  then  as  if  it  would  be  a  heart-breaking 
sorrow  to  leave  those  children  with  the  rough  path  of  life 
all  before  them,  beset,  too,  with  temptations  that  may  be- 
guile those  little  feet  astray.  But  the  feeling  passes.  The 
tenderness  of  the  pitying  Father  in  heaven,  the  yearning 
love  of  the  elder  brother,  are  pledges  for  their  guidance 
which  I  can,  and  do  accept." 

"  But,  dearest  mother,"  said  Edith,  lifting  up  her  weep- 
ing face,  and  smoothing  back  the  brown,  unsilvered  hair 
from  the  sufferer's  forehead ;  "  you  are  not  going  to  be 
taken — God  is  so  good.  We  need  your  guidance — I  do,  at 
least,  as  much  as  the  children." 


372  SILVERWOOD. 

*'  Ah !  my  child,  I  am  but  a  poor  guide.  I  can  only 
put  my  own  hand,  as  you  must  do,  into  that  of  the  Re- 
deemer. There  is  no  compassion,  no  sympathy,  no  hu- 
man tenderness,  no  pity,  like  His.  I  remember  the  proof 
He  has  given  us  of  it  in  the  garden  and  on  the  cross,  and 
my  whole  soul  is  filled  with  emotions  of  unutterable  grati- 
tude and  content.  From  His  lips  I  have  learned  to  say, 
'  Even  so.  Father  !'  " 


XIX  VI. 

%\)j  Sdtiiig  Sun. 

We  have  often  seen  the  watery  clouds  that  had  all  the 
day  stretched  over  the  sky  a  vapory  veil,  through  which 
the  light  came  with  a  dreary  pallidness,  suddenly  part, 
while  through  the  rift,  struggled  a  touch  of  gold  over  hill 
and  valley,  so  unexpected,  so  glad  in  its  contrast  with  the 
previous  gloom,  that  Nature's  moistened  eyes  grew  lus- 
trous with  rainbow  hues  as  she  lifted  them  in  thanks- 
giving. And  even  as  we  gazed  with  an  answering  joy, 
we  have  seen  the  brilliancy  flit  away — the  heavy  fringes 
of  the  clouds  close  again — the  kindled  blaze  die  out,  and 
the  grim  night  enfold  us  in  a  vesture  of  palpable  dark- 
ness. 

Such  had  been  the  experience  of  the  watchers  at  the 
sick  bed.  Three  more  days  had  passed  between  alternat- 
ing hope  and  fear  ;  and  now,  as  the  sun  descended  behind 
the  dark,  straight  brow  of  Castlehead,  leaving  a  rich,  am- 
ber glow,   like   a   breathed  farewell,  on  the  wide-spread 


874  SILVERWOOD. 

landscape,  another  sun  was  wearing  to  a  more  cloudless 
setting,  with  a  trail  of  light  on  its  parting  path  of  more 
translucent  purity  than  ever  tinges  the  hills  and  valleys  of 
earth. 

"  Once  more,"  faintly  sighed  the  sufferer,  "  let  me  once 
more  see  the  day  fade,"  and  as  Zilpha  arranged  the  pil- 
lows, and  Edith  put  hack  the  muslin  curtain  from  the 
window,  a  smile  so  joyous,  so  heaming,  broke  over  the 
sunken  features,  that  at  the  sight  of  it,  Edith  and  the 
children  could  not  restrain  their  sobbings,  it  was  so  like 
the  cheerful  beauty  of  the  olden  time.  True  to  the  prin- 
ciple of  her  life,  the  brightness  clung  to  her  to  the  last. 
That  serene,  sunshiny  spirit  had  never,  through  all  its 
course,  had  any  affinity  with  sombreness — it  could  have 
none  now.  There  was  even  an  exultant  tone  in  her  voice, 
tremulous  though  it  was.  She  had  risen  above  the  atmos- 
phere of  time  ;  she  already  breathed  the  rarer  breath  of  a 
higher  world.  "  My  sun  will  rise  in  heaven  I"  she  mur- 
mured, with  her  bright,  unfailing  eye  full  of  the  western 
radiance,  fixed  steadily  on  the  spot  where  the  rim  of  light 
had  just  disappeared.  "  My  children  !  there  is  no  night 
there  !" 

"  But  oh  !  mother  !  mother  !"  exclaimed  Josepha,  fling- 
ing herself  upon  the  bed  in  a  burst  of  sorrow,  "  it  will  be 
all  night  here — and  so  dark  !" 

"  Not  if  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  shine  on  your  heads, 
dear  Sepha.  He  can  make  it  all  day  ;  and  He  will !  He 
will !» 


THE  SETTING  SUN.  875 

*'  If  only  the  gates  of  heaven  would  open,  and  take  us 
all  ml"  exclaimed  Edith,  clasping  her  mother's  cold  hands 
with  passionate  earnestness  between  her  own,  as  she  chafed 
and  tried  to  v/arm  them.     "  Oh  I  to  go  with  you  I" 

'^  You  will  all  come  soon,"  was  the  faint  reply — ^'  all! 
all !  How  many  are  there  already  I  Your  precious  father — 
he  waits  my  coming.  I  think  I  can  see  his  angel  face, 
grown  radiant  with  looking  so  long  upon  the  Reedeemer's — 
and  the  last  who  ascended — my  blessed  boy  !  Ah !  yes, 
I  will  know  him  among  them  all !  They  vrill  lead  me, 
between  them,  to  the  divine  feet ;  but  the  thought  is  too 
rapturous  ;  it  overwhelms  me  I" 

''  And  have  you  no  fear  of  the  dark  river,  my  beloved 
mother  ?"  asked  Zilpha,  steadily. 

^^  l^one — =none  !  'When  thou  passest  through  the  waters, 
I  will  be  with  thee  ;  and  through  the  rivers,  they  shall  not 
overflow  thee.'  I  believed  that  long  ago.  Yvliy  should 
I  doubt  it  now  ?  '  The  dark  river  I'  It  is  not  dark,  my 
child ;  the  lights  from  the  city  on  the  other  side  stream 
all  across  it.  It  is  not — not  a  river  ;  only  a  rill ;  just  a 
step  over,  and  then — heaven  !" 

An  interval  of  exhaustion  followed. 

"  Tell  the  servants  to  come  near,"  she  whispered.  She 
gave  a  farewell  word  to  each,  as  they  bent,  weeping  over 
her  extended  hand  ;  but  her  own  eye  was  dry.  "With  the 
golden  gates  ajar,  what  had  she  to  do  with  tears  I 

"  And  now,  Mr.    Norris,  one  more  prayer,"   she  said. 


876  SILVERWOOD. 

turning  her  eyes  to  the  old  clergyman;  "  then — then — all 
praise." 

Amidst  suppressed  sobs  that  sometimes  broke  into  vio- 
lent weeping,  the  earnest  voice  arose.  It  poured  out 
thanksgiving  for  the  triumphant  trust;  it  pleaded  for  a 
gentle,  easy  dismission  ;  it  besought  that  the  unclosing 
gates  might  stand  wider  open,  so  that  a  gleam  of  the  in- 
ner glory  might  fall  round  the  sorrowing  group  who  stood 
in  the  shadow  of  the  nether  valley  ;  and  with  the  grasp  of 
a  strong  faith,  it  essayed  to  lift  up  those  breaking  hearts, 
and  lay  them  within  the  pitying  hand  of  Jesus. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door-bell,  as  they  all  rose  from 
their  knees,  except  Zilpha  and  Edith,  who  still  clung  to 
the  cold  hands.  Uncle  Felix,  who  had  glided  out  of  the 
room,  re-appeared  in  a  moment,  and  stooped  with  a  whis- 
per towards  Zilpha. 

"  I  am  thankful,"  she  breathed.  "  Let  him  come  up  ;" 
then  attracting  her  mother's  attention,  she  whispered, 
''  Bryant  has  come." 

"  That  is  kind  !"  was  the  faint  response. 

"  Now  it  will  be  easier  to  go,"  she  murmured,  after  the 
strangely  sorrowful  greetings  were  over,  and  Bryant  had 
knelt  beside  the  kneeling  sisters.  "  How  unbounded  is  the 
goodness  of  God  !  Bryant,  I  need  not  ask  you  to  be  a 
brother  to  my  daughters — to  be  what  my  Lawrence  would 
have  been." 

The  tall,  manly  form  quivered  with  emotion,  and  he 
could  only  bow  his  head  in  reply. 


THE  SETTING  SUN.  877 

''  Did  T  not  say  it,  Zilpha— Edith,  that  the  Lord  would 
take  care  of  you  ?  and  He  will.  Man  may — does  disap- 
point. It  is  the  testimony  of  my  dying  hreath  that  Grod 
disappoints  never,  never.     Jehovah-jireh  !" 

The  eyes  closed ;  the  lips  moved  in  silence  for  a  time. 

"  Zilpha,  your  ear." 

Zilpha  bent  her  ear  to  her  lip,  and  the  words  that  were 
whispered,  bathed  anew  the  listener's  face  with  tears. 

*^  Come  here,  my  darlings,"  and  the  pale  hand  was  ex- 
tended towards  Eunice  and  Josepha,  and  laid  on  each 
bowed  head.  "  The  blessing  of  your  parents'  God 
and  Saviour  be  upon  you.  You  will  both  meet  me  yonder," 
and  the  wasted  finger  pointed  upward,  "  will  you  ?" 

The  two  children  almost  shrieked  their  quick  reply. 

''  Remember — I  carry  that  promise  with  me  to  heaven 
— remember  !" 

"  Don't  think  you  will  be  lonely  without  me,  my  chil- 
dren. When  you  are  enabled  successfully  to  resist  a  temp- 
tation ;  when  you  are  glad  with  a  strange  joy  .in  prayer, 
think  it  may  be  I  who  have  been  sent  with  a  minister- 
ing spirit's  consolation.  That  thought  will  keep  me  near 
you.  Only  a  thin  veil  of  flesh  will  separate  us.  That  will 
fall  off  in  a  little  while,  and  then  we  will  be  together — an 
eternity  !" 

The  clasping  hands  relaxed ;  the  drooping  lids  closed  ; 
the  colorless  lips  moved  without  utterance  ;  a  thrilling 
stillness  was  felt  through  the  chamber. 

16* 


378  SILVERWOOD. 

"  I  thirst,"  were  the  words  Zilpha's  bended  ear  caught. 
With  her  wild  grief  petrified  for  a  moment  to  silence, 
Edith  attempted  to  hold  a  glass  of  water  to  her  mouth. 
She  opened  her  eyes,  and  fixed  them  full  upon  her  with  a 
lofty,  triumphant  smile. 

"  Not  for  that ;  it  is  for  the— the— " 

The  words  faded  into  air ;  the  arms  were  lifted  with  an 
eager  gesture,  then  fell  again ;  the  bosom  heaved  ;  the 
breath  came  fainter,  slower,  slower ;  the  lip  that  was 
athirst  was  drinking  from  the  river  of  the  water  of  life  ! 


XXXVII 


left   ^tljiitb. 


— ' '  For  three  months  the  sod  has  heen  smoothed  ahove 
my  mother's  grave;  the  ^\'intry  winds  have  moaned  over 
it ;  the  snow  has  whitened  it  once,  twice,  thrice  ;  I  have 
kept  count  of  its  kindly  covering  up  of  the  ghastly,  yellow 
clay,  for  that  has  heen  all  my  thought  as  I  watched  it 
falling.  Her  grave  I  I  push  from  me  the  hitter,  stinging 
conception.  It  is  too  terrible,  too  chilling  to  the  life- 
blood  of  my  heart  to  be  taken  home  to  it,  even  yet,  as 
a  deliberate,  inexorable  truth,  that  she  is  the  owner  of  a 
grave  !  That  bright,  genial  face ;  that  loving,  tender- 
throbbing  pulse-flow  ;  that  quick  step  ;  that  unbent  form — 
what  have  these  to  do  with  death?  Nothing,  nothing. 
She  is  not  dead — only  heaven 

"  '  Has  opened  on  a  hinge  of  harmony, 
And  lot  her  thro'  to  glory — ■' 


880  SILVER  WOOD. 

while  I,  poor  weeper,  am  breaking  my  heart  over  the  '  locked 
wardrobe  '  that  holds  only  the  cast  away  garment  of  the 
beautiful  soul,  now  radiant  with  the  white  raiment  of  im- 
mortality. But  oh  I  the  coffin — Ihe  mound  of  withered 
grass — the  stone  with  that  precious  name  cut  upon  it — 
the  lonely,  far  distant  burial  spot,  lonely  as  Lawrence's 
island  grave,  all  haunt  me  with  a  ghostly  terror.  Surely 
she  was  kindred  enouHi  to  Grod's  anirels  to  have  been 
wafted,  Elijah-like,  invested  with  the  body,  to  heaven  ! 

"  Oh  !  those  days  and  nights  of  benumbing  anguish 
that  followed  her  going  away — the  lifting  of  the  rigid  form 
across  the  threshold  where  I  had  so  often  seen  her  stand, 
looking  off  towards  the  golden  sunsets — the  slow,  silent 
tread  of  those  who  bore  it  carefully,  as  if  they  feared  it 
might  wake  her,  down  the  long  gravel-walk — th6  break- 
ing up  of  home,  my  last  home — the  coming  away  without 
lier^  she  who  had  always  planned  every  movement  for 
us,  to  be  left  behind  !  Compassionate  Redeemer  !  fold 
to  thy  human  heart,  the  throbbing,  aching  one,  that,  but 
for  Thy  pity,  would  break  and  die  !  Thy  tenderness  can 
be  gentler  than  even  her's.  A  mother's  tenderness  I  The 
language  of  earth  can  give  hint  or  shadow  of  nothing 
half  so  sweet  ;  and  when  I  try  to  fathom  the  depth  of 
Christ's  love,  all  the  rich  expressions  of  Scripture  furnish 
me  with  no  words  so  exquisite  in  their  pathos  as  this — 
'  As  one  whom  his  mother  comforteth,  will  I  comfort 
you.'     This  is  the  pillow  on   which  my   soul  finds  rest ; 


LEFT  BEHIND.  881 

but  these  famished,  these  craving,  these  importunate 
human  affections,  that  will  not  he  reasoned  down — that 
cannot  live  without  their  daily  supply  of  sweet,  satisfying 
sympathy — that  faint,  even  while  they  question  not  the 
truth  of  all  that  faith  is  whispering  to  them — ah !  thei/ 
must  go  '  an  hungered  '  to  the  grave  ! 

"It  is  over,  and  she  is  gone.  Five  months  ago  'the 
angel  of  our  household  '  went  from  our  hearts  heaven- 
ward. To-day,  Zilpha,  my  beautiful,  my  best-beloved — 
ah!  poor  heart,  is  that  said  in  perfect  truth — thy  best- 
beloved  ? — to-day  she  has  left  my  side  to  return  as  hereto- 
fore no  more.  I  stood  beside  her,  as  she  leaned  so  trustingly 
on  that  strong,  supporting  arm  ;  I  listened  to  the  spoken 
words  that  made  her  another's  than  mine  ;  I  saw  him  seal  the 
vow  he  had  taken,  with  a  kiss  on  that  pure  forehead, 
when  all  was  over,  and  T  did  not  tremble — I  did  not  shed 
a  tear.  A  strange  apathy  is  colding  my  heart,  I  some- 
times fear,  or  is  it  only  that  it  has  felt,  and  ached,  and 
suffered,  till  feeling  and  capability  of  impression  are  alike 
gone!  Nothing,  I  believe,  can  move  me  greatly  now. 
I  had  thought  it  would  cost  me  unspeakable  grief  to  be 
separated  from  Zilpha,  when  the  idea  was  first  presented 
to  me — her  full,  unshared  confidence  was  such  a  part  of 
my  being.  To-day,  that  oneness  of  confiding  love,  the  all 
that  the  most  grasping  heart  wants  or  needs,  is  passed 
over  to  another.  She  and  Eunice  are  both  gone.  I  may 
not  see  them  for  months,  but  I  write  with  a  steady  hand. 


382  SILVERWOOD. 

I  do  not  manifest  even  the  grief  that  disturbs  poor 
Josepha,  though  the  truth  is  breaking  over  me  with  a  dull 
inevitableness,  that  I  am  left  behind. 

*'  Left  behind!  My  father's  farewell  kiss  was  given 
me  long  ago,  and  my  child's  heart  ached  for  many  a  day 
over  the  empty  place  he  never  came  back  to  fill.  Then  Law- 
rence went  away — to  find  a  grave  ;  but  sorest  and  most 
desolate  of  all,  came  that  leaving,  like  which  there  can 
be  none  hereafter.  Now  my  lovely  saint-like  sister  is 
gone,  not  as  they,  indeed,  but  with  the  grave  of  marriage 
dug  between  us,  in  which  must  lie  buried  the  dead  con- 
fidences of  our  hitherto  undivided  souls.  It  is  surely  a 
sad  going  away.  The  heart-chambers  are  emptying  fast. 
They  echo  hollowly,  with  low,  piteous  wailings,  so  that 
thought  often  affrighted,  turns  the  key,  and  glides  away, 
daring  neither  to  venture  in  nor  listen.  It  cannot  bear 
the  counting  over  of  the  golden-hoarded  memories  that  are 
stored  away  there.  The  luxury  has  in  it  too  much  of  heart- 
break. It  cannot  hear  without  quailing,  the  pleading, 
plaintive  refrain,  '  mother  !  mother  !  ' 

"  I  have  a  vivid  remembrance  of  crossing  a  wide  com- 
mon once,  when  a  very  little  child,  with  a  half  dozen 
companions.  I  dallied,  picking  wild-flowers,  till  I  found 
on  a  sudden  that  they  had  all  gone  and  left  me.  The 
setting  sun  threw  interminable  shadows  before  me,  and 
the  east  was  beginning  to  darken  with  the  coming  of 
night.   I  shouted,  but  they  were  too  far  away  too  hear  me  ; 


LEFT  BEHIND.  883 

I  ran  to  overtake  them,  but  fright  had  deprived  me  of  all 
my  little  strength.  I  sank  down  on  the  grass,  overcome 
with  a  sense  of  despair,  that  to  this  day  I  cannot  for- 
get. Was  the  childhood's  experience  a  fore-shadow  of 
my  future  ? 

"  There  is  another  name  that  disquiets  me  with  its 
haunting  sweetness.  Strange  that  time,  and  hopelessness, 
and  sorrow,  have  not  drowned  that  sound  Ions:  agfo  ! 
Strange  that  the  letters  which  have  come  to  me  since  my 
mother's  departure,  full  of  only  a  natural,  but  very  tender 
condolence,  should  make  my  hands  tremble  while  I  open 
them  !  The  chance  expressions  of  ordinary  friendship  ; 
the  '  dear  Edith ;'  the  '  affectionately  yours,'  such  as 
any  one  feeling  the  least  interest  in  me,  might  write — 
such  as  could  not  well  be  less,  coming  from  a  kinsman, 
why  will  my  foolish  heart  try  to  extract  a  sustenance  from 
them  they  were  never  meant  to  give  ?  I  almost  wish  I  had 
not  known  what  it  was   to  have    him  to   lean    on  durino^ 

o 

those  last,  bitter  days  at  Silverwood.  His  sympathies,  so 
unutterably  satisfying ;  his  words  of  precious  consolation  ; 
his  beautiful  prayers  ;  his  sweet  helpfulness  in  teaching 
me  the  uses  of  my  sufferings ;  the  touch  of  his  hand  ;  his 
arm  wound  so  frankly  about  me,  as  it  might  have  been 
about  Eunice  or  Sepha — ah  !  they  were  all  too  soothing, 
too  strengthening,  too  beguiling  !  I  felt  the  fainter  when 
the  arm  was  withdrawn,  for  it  ivas  withdrawn,  and  I 
sankdowQ  weaker,  wearier,  lonelier  than  before.     Shame, 


384  SILVERWOOD. 

shame  poor  heart !  that  when  thou  hast  God  to  lean 
upon,  thou  shouldst  yet  cling  with  such  a  fond  conviction 
to  the  belief  that  the  love  of  a  human  heart  like  thine 
own,  could  endue  thee  with  a  mysterious  strength  to 
do  and  to  bear  all  things  I  Let  me  falsify  the  belief,  if 
I  can  ;  let  me  compel  myself  to  write  of  him  as  of  the 
others — 

LEFT  BEHIND. 

I  CANNOT  chide  away  the  pain, 

I  cannot  bid  the  throb  be  still, 
That  aches  and  aches  through  heart  and  brain, 

And  leaves  them  pulsing  to  the  thrill 
Of  overburdening  sorrow.     They 

Who  never  saw  the  eyelids  close, 
Beneath  whose  drooping  fringes  lay 

The  charm  of  all  their  life's  repose — 
The  bloom,  the  blissfulness,  the  joy. 
The  love  that  could  not  know  alloy — 
Who  have  not  sat  and  watched  the  breath. 

That  only  breathed  to  bless  them,  come 

Fainter  and  fainter  till  the  dumb 
Unanswering  lips  grew  pale  in  death — 
They  cannot  know,  by  grief  untaught, 

What  an  unfathomed  depth  I  find. 
Of  ebbless  anguish  in  the  thought 
That  I  am  left  behind. 

What  matters  it  that  other  eyes 

Have  smiles  to  give  me  just  as  sweet. 

Or  softly  other  lips  repeat 
Endearments  of  as  gentle  guise  1 


LEFT  BEHIND.  385 

I  only  feel  the  smile,  whate'er 

Its  3'earning  tenderness  may  be, 
Is  not  the  one  whose  winning  cheer 

Was  more  than  all  the  world  to  me  ! 
I  only  feel,  howe'er  so  kind 

Is  everything  that  voice  may  say — 

'Tis  not  the  one  that  passed  away. 
When  I  was  left  behind  ! 

I  know — I  know  that  as  of  yore. 

Nature  is  festive  in  her  mirth  ; 
That  still  the  sun  comes  shining  through 
The  clear  and  palpitating  blue, 
As  goldenly  as  heretofore  ; 

I  know  this  fair  rejoicing  earth 
Tides  underneath  the  smile  of  God, 
As  to  the  moonbeams  tides  the  sea — 
But  yet  there's  little  joy  for  me, 

In  all  the  brightness  spread  abroad. 
The  smiting  blow  that  grief  has  given, 

So  jars  the  mirror  of  my  mind. 
That  everything  of  sweet  or  fair, 
Has  but  distorted  reflex  there  : 

And  oh  !  the  tears — the  tears,  like  rain. 
Upon  its  surface  leave  their  stain, 
Since  my  beloved  went  to  heaven — 
Since  I  was  left  behind  ! 

There  is  a  hand  that  can  restore 

The  spirit's  equipoise,  till  true, 
In  faith's  serene,  soft  light  once  more. 

His  image  trembles  back  to  view. 
Dear  Christ !  when  there  Thy  form  appears. 
Let  me  not  blot  it  with  my  tears, 


386  SILVERWOOD. 

That  are  not  murmuring  tears — yet  sad  : 
I  would  be  patient,  I  would  find 

How  much  the  thought  can  reconcile — 
Can  lift  me  up,  and  make  me  glad, 
That  only  for  a  little  while 
Shall  I  he  left  behind  ! 


XXXVIII. 

A  FORTNIGHT  had  dragged  itself  drearily  away  for 
Edith  since  Zilpha's  marriage,  and  with  the  increasing 
days  the  burden  of  her  loneliness  grew  none  the  lighter. 
The  constant  letters  which  came  from  her  could  not  as- 
suage the  heart-thirst.  They  were  refreshing,  indeed,  and 
solacing  ;  but  there  was  a  faintness  within  which  the 
drop  could  not  satisfy.  Her  aunt  was  kind,  but  then  it 
was  a  kindness  that  had  no  communion  with  the  inner 
world  of  thought  and  emotion  in  which  Edith  lived. 
She  was  not  obtuse,  but  when  her  husband  had  died,  she 
had  folded  her  hands  in  no  morbid  despondency — had 
wasted  little  time  in  unavailins:  reo-rets.  These  her  natu- 
ral  energy  and  love  of  activity,  as  well  as  the  pressing 
demands  of  a  large  plantation  on  her  hands  and  thoughts, 
alike  forbade.  She  imagined  that  Edith  could  do  as  she 
had  done — let  the  stream  of  the  Present,  with  its  small, 
ever-recurring  incidents,  cover  up  the  foot-prints  memory 


388  SILVERWOOD. 

had  left  on  the  sands  of  the  Past.  The  daily  instruction 
of  Josepha  and  her  little  cousins  had  its  unconscious  uses 
and  consolations  in  compelling  an  arrest  of  the  feelings  too 
unduly  lingered  over  ;  and  although  the  light  thoughtless- 
ness of  the  children  seemed  many  times  to  mock  her, 
Edith  could  find  in  them  a  companionship  more  to  her 
liking  than  in  the  colder  and  more  world-worn  natures 
ahout  her. 

But  she  had  no  one  now  to  whom  she  could  talk  about 
her  mother  or  her  sorrows  with  that  undoubting  assur- 
ance of  answering  sympathy  which  the  confiding  heart 
demands.  Josepha  shunned  the  topic.  It  made  her  only 
cry,  and  the  child  had  never  had  any  love  for  tears ;  and 
Edith  would  sometimes  fear  that  the  remembrance  of 
what  she  was  so  anxious  to  cherish  in  her,  might  grow 
dim.  But  if  she  seemed  to  turn  away  from  the  subject 
in  her  waking  hours,  in  her  sleep  she  often  stretched  out 
her  arms  and  sobbed,  ^'•mother — mother ^''^  with  a 
piteousness  that  filled  the  listener's  eyes  with  tears. 

"  A  letter  again  from  sister  I"  exclaimned  Josepha, 
bursting  into  Edith's  room,  "  and  a  thick  one  too.  There 
must  be  one  inside  from  Eunice  for  me." 

Edith  broke  it  open,  and  instead  of  the  expected  one 
from  Eunice,  her  eye  caught  the  superscription  of  one 
bearing  a  foreign  post-mark,    to  her  mother,  at  their  old 

home  in  B ,  from  whence   it  had   been  forwarded  to 

Mr.  Dubois,  as  a  known  friend  of  the  family,  whose  pres- 


THE  REDEEMED  PLEDGE.  389 

ent  whereabouts  the  post-master  was  ignorant  of.  There 
,was  a  momentary  start  of  sorrow.  The  hands  that  should 
have  opened  it,  were  moveless  now.  The  eyes  that  should 
have  read  it,  were  to  be  unclosed  no  more.  She  turned 
to  Zilpha's  letter  for  explanation,  and  soon  came  to  the 
following  paragraph  : 

— "  I  knew,  my  dearest  Edith,  that  sooner  or  later  we 
would,  in  someway,  realize  the  truth  of  our  beloved  mother's 
trust  for  us  ;  but  the  idea  of  having  the  verification  of  it 
put  before  our  eyes  so  soon,  and  in  such  a  manner,  would 
have  seemed  chimerical.  '  Jehovah-jireh '  were  among  our 
mother's  last  words.  Read  the  enclosed  letter,  and  confess 
the  fulfilment  of  her  unwavering  faith.  While  I  have 
been  overpowered  with  a  sense  of  Gfod's  goodness  to  me,  I 
have  had,  in  the  midst  of  my  quiet  joy,  a  strong  pain  at  my 
heart  to  think  of  your  loneliness — you  who  need  support 
more  than  I — and  1  have  felt  as  if  it  were  selfish  to  be 
quite  so  happy  as  I  might  be,  when  you  were  sorrowful. 
But  a  load  is  lifted,  to-day,  from  my  spirits,  by  this  unex- 
pected and  blessed  letter.  From  it  you  will  find  that,  con- 
trary to  all  our  expectations,  the  Scotch  grand-uncle  has, 
after  all,  left  dear  mother  or  her  heirs  a  handsome  portion 
of  his  property.  Thirty-thousand  dollars  !  It  is  a  God- 
send, Edith,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word.  Now,  your 
too  sensitive  spirit  shall  not  be  chafed  by  a  feeling  of  de- 
pendence ;  now,  there's  an  end  to  the  acceptance  of  the 
governess-ship     you     have    proposed ;     now,     you     and 


390  SILYEKWOOD, 

Joseplia  shall  join  us,  in  two  or  three  months'  time^ 
as  we  return  on  our  way  to  Mr.  Fleming's  G-eorgia  home — -^ 
the  bequest  of  a  rich  aunt,  who  died  two  years  ago,  and  to 
which,  owing  to  his  father's  ill-health,  he  has  never  yet  as- 
sumed the  care.  Since  he  came  to  New- York,  he  has 
found  reason  to  change  his  former  plans,  and  has  now  de- 
termined to  go  and  reside  on  the  estate  himself,  as  he  feels 
too  sensibly  the  responsibility  of  looking  personally  after 
the  physical  and  moral  condition  of  his  servants  there,  to 
delegate  it  to  other  hands. 

**  It  is  my  fixed  purpose  to  renounce  all  interest  in  the 
legacy  from  Newton  Lodge  in  behalf  of  my  three  sisters. 
I  did  not  need  Mr.  Fleming's  suggestion  to  that  effect,  a& 
my  mind  was  made  up  before  he  proposed  it.  It  has  only 
been  since  my  marriage  that  I  have  learned  from  him  how 
very  ample  his  resources  are,  so  that  there  is  no  pretext 
for  my  setting  up  a  claim  of  self-denial  on  the  occasion. 
There  is  one  difficulty  about  this  legacy.  The  Scotch  ex- 
ecutor suggests  that  a  representative  of  the  American 
branch  of  the  family  come  over  at  once  and  attend  to  it, 
as  there  is  a  possibility  of  some  litigation  in  regard  to  the 
will.  Suppose  we  employ  Cousin  Bryant  to  undertake  it 
for  us.  He  has  fine  business  talent,  and  it  will  afford  him 
a  pleasant  opportunity  of  seeing  Britain.  Mr.  Fleming 
thinks  it  is  just  the  thing. 

"  To  think  how  sweet  it  will  be  for  us  all  to  be  together 
again,  makes  my  heart  run  over.    We   shall  be  happy  in 


THE  REDEEMED  PLEDGE.  891 

each  other's  presence  and  love  ;  happy  in  living  over  the 
hright,  yes.  and  even  the  trying  past  ;  happy  in  our  he- 
loved  ones'  exceeding  joy  ;  happy  in  following  them  as  they 
followed  Christ — heavenward." 

Edith  laid  down  the  letter  w^hich  she  had  read,  with 
many  pauses,  and  with  clouded  vision ;  and  leaning  her 
forehead  against  Josepha's  hright  head,  she  clasped  her 
arms  tightly  about  her,  without  the  power  to  speak. 

"  Dear  sister  Edith,  don't  cry.  Why,  it's  something  to  be 
very  glad  about.  Don't  you  feel  thankful  ?"  and  the  child 
soothingly  stroked  the  jetty  hair.  "  It's  just  as  mother  said, 
isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  just  as  sweet  mother  said.  If  only  she  were 
her©,  or  Lawrence,  we  could  be  very  gay.  But,  indeed, 
I'm  ashamed  of  my  doubts,  my  dear — that's  what  makes 
me  cry.  Don't  you  ever  do  so  ?  Believe  like  darling  mother 
did — that  God  w^ill  provide  always^ 

"I  do  believe  it ;  I  always  believed  everything  she  said, 
because  she  never  in  my  life  told  me  anything  that  wasn't 
just  soJ^ 

"  Well,  believe  it,  Sepha,  not  only  because  she  said  it, 
but  because  it  is  God's  own  precious  truth.  For  your 
sake  and  Eunice's,  I  am  very,  very  thankful ;  and  dear 
Zilpha,  what  a  devoted  sister  she  is  !  Heaven  bless  her 
for  her  love  and  care  !     For  myself — " 

But  Edith  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  For  herself,  she 
would  have  said  it  made  but  little  difference — the  mere 


392  SILVERWOOD. 

provision  for  physical  comfort  did  not  seem  a  matter  of 
great  importance  now.  But  she  recalled  her  mother's  mild 
rebuke — that  we  have  Grod  and  His  service  always  to  live 
and  suffer  for — and  a  chastened  emotion,  nearer  akin  to 
joy  than  she  had  known  for  many  a  day,  stirred  her  soul, 
as  she  made,  then  and  there,  a  vow  and  a  surrender  more 
entire  than  had  ever  passed  her  lips  before. 

The  next  day,  after  the  school-duties  of  the  morning 
were  over,  and  Edith  sat  in  her  chamber  writing  an  an- 
swer to  Zilpha's  letter,  a  servant  came  to  Edith  with 
the  message  that  there  was  some  one  in  the  parlor  wanting 
to  see  her. 

"  Didn't  he  send  up  his  name  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am ;  but  it's  de  gentleman  who  fotched  you 
alls  ladies  here  when  you  fust  come." 

Edith  rose  instantly,  and,  with  hands  that  trembled  in 
spite  of  her  resolution  to  make  them  steady,  closed  her 
desk,  and  followed  to  the  door.  For  a  moment  she  stood 
with  her  hand  on  the  knob  ;  then  she  closed  it,  sat  down, 
and  tried  to  reason  and  command  herself  into  perfect  com- 
posure ;  but  it  would  not  do.  She  turned  the  key,  and 
dropping  on  her  knees,  offered  up  a  few  earnest  petitions 
that  were  better  than  all ;  for  when  she  passed  out  of  the 
room  her  face  had  attained  its  old  quiet  again. 

Josepha  was  in  the  parlor  when  she  entered,  overjoyed 
at  seeing  "Cousin  Barry"  once  more  ;  and,  child-like,  as 
she  stood  with  an  arm  round  his  neck,  she  had  crowded 


THE  REDEEMED  PLEDGE.  393 

into  the  fifteen  minutes  she  had  been  with  him,  all  the 
news  she  could  thinlc  of  about  the  travellers,  together  with 
the  contents  of  Zilpha's  last  letter.  Edith  met  Bryant 
with  none  of  the  embarrassment  her  chamber  had  been 
witness  of;  the  traitorous  voice,  nevertheless,  had  to  be 
condemned  to  some  moments  of  silence. 

"  It  is  very  kind  in  you,  Cousin  Bryant,"  she  said,  after 
a  pause,  "  to  come  and  see  us  just  noiuy  But  she 
checked  herself.  Zilpha's  marriage  was  a  tender  point  to 
touch  upon,  and  she  did  not  know  exactly  how  to  go  on. 
Bryant  drew  her  towards  him  with  an  easy  frankness — for 
she  had  seated  herself  at  the  furthest  corner  of  the  sofa  on 
which  he  sat — and,  vv^ith  his  other  arm  around  Josepha, 
began  to  speak  of  Zilpha  and  Mr.  Fleming  in  such  a  way 
as  put  Edith  at  her  ease  in  talking  of  them, 

"  Tell  me  all  about  her  marriage  ;  how  she  looked  ;  how 
yon  bore  it ;  how  Sepha  comported  herself.  I  want  to  hear 
all." 

Edith  essayed,  but  her  tongue,  somehow,  did  not  do  her 
bidding  well ;  and  Josepha  could  not  resist  taking  the 
story  from  her  lips. 

"  She  was  married  before  breakfast.  Cousin  Barry,  which 
we  had  just  at  ten  o'clock.     Mr.  Fleming  rode  over  from 

F about  an  hour  before,   and   Mrs.   Grayson,   Aunt 

Maria's  sister,  and  her  daughter,  Miss  Virginia,  were  all 
the  strangers  that  were  here,  besides  Mr.  Maclean,  the 
minister.     The  servants,  though,  made  quite  a  big  party, 

17 


394  SILVERWOOD 

for  about  twenty  of  them  asked  sister's  leave  to  come  and 
see  tlie  ceremony ;  and  it  made  me  laugh  to  see  Aunt 
Tabby,  the  old  cook.  She  was  so  taken  up  with  her 
*  Sally-Lunns,'  and  her  muffins,  and  her  rolls,  and  so  on, 
that  she  wouldn't  leave  them  till  Mr.  Maclean  was  begin- 
ning; and  then  she  rushed  in  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up, 
which  she  didn't  find  out  till  the  ceremony  was  nearly  over, 
and  then  you  ought  to  have  seen  what  a  scuffle  she  and 
Mammy  Winnie  had  to  get  'em  down  I  1  wondered  sister 
didn't  have  you  to  marry  her.  Cousin  Barry  ;  it  would  have 
seemed  more  like  the  thing.  Well,  she  looked  mighty 
sweet,  only  '  as  white  as  cotton,'  Sophy  said.  She  didn't 
cry  any  ;  but  her  eyes  were  bright,  just  as  if  the  tears 
were  there,  but  didn't  like  to  fall.  Sister  Edith  didn't 
cry  either,  I  believe.  Then  we  sat  down  to  such  a  beau- 
tiful breakfast !  and,  as  soon  as  ever  it  was  over,  they 
started  away." 

"The  whole  affair  in  a  nut-shell — very  succinct  and  satis- 
factory.    I'm  glad  to  hear  sister  Edith  didn't  cry." 

"  The  very  depth  of  our  emotions  sometimes  has  the 
effect  of  making  us  appear  calm,"  said  Edith  ;  "  that  was 
the  way  with  Zilpha." 

"  Yes,  I  think  she  suppressed  her  feelings  too  much, 
often ;  for  the  sake  of  saving  it  to  others,  she  took  upon 
herself  just  so  much  additional  pain  as  the  suppression 
caused  her.  But  such  a  Spartan  virtue  must  not  answer 
for  you,  Edith  ;  with  your  temperament,  this  sort  of  pas- 


THE  REDEEMED  PLEDGE.  896 

sive  endurance  is  not  to  be  encouraged.  Well,  I  am  thank- 
ful that  Zilpha  is  happy  ;  who  could  deserve  it  better  ?" 

"  None  on  earth,-'  replied  Edith,  energetically.  "  I  know 
her  as  no  one  else  can,  and  I  must  say,  that  unless  I  ex- 
cept my  mother  and  brother,  I  never  met  with  so  pure  and 
unselfish  a  spirit.  She  is  one  of  God's  angels,  who  walk 
the  earth  disguised  in  the  garb  of  humanity,  whom  we  en- 
teitain  unawares." 

"  I  believe  it— I  believe  it,"  said  Bryant,  warmly  ;  and 
again  Edith  checked  herself,  for  she  fancied  her  voice  had 
a  tremor  in  it ;  but  these  were  her  uppermost  thoughts, 
and  they  would  have  egress. 

*'  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  there  is  nothing  of  the  reformer 
in  Mr.  Fleming's  composition,  for  '  his  occupation  would 
be  gone  '  with  Zilpha  as  a  subject.  Would  anybody  so 
perfect  have  suited  me,  do  you  think,  Sepha?" 

"  Not  if  you  like  to  have  somebody  to  correct,  as  you 
used  to  do  Eunice  and  me  ;  but  we  were  only  children. 
Grown  up  ladies  don't  need  to  be  corrected." 

''Ah,  indeed  !  your  friend  Miss  Jacqueline,  for  example. 
It  strikes  me  you  had  some  faults  of  her's  to  tell  me  of, 
when  we  were  travelling  together  last  Autumn." 

"  Uncle  Felix  said  '  it  was  his  opinion  Miss  Jacqueline 
thought  the  sun  rose  and  set  in  her  own  face.' " 

"Uncle  Felix  is  a  discriminating  judge.  Pray,  when  did 
you  hear  from  the  old  man  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I've  had  two  letters  since  we  came  here.    You 


396  SILVERWOOD. 

know  he  went  to  live  at  Mr.  Roberts',  where  his  wife  is  ; 
and  he  gets  one  of  the  little  boys  there  to  write  for  him. 
He  says  he  shuts  his  eyes  when  he  has  to  go  by  Silver- 
wood,  for  the  gentleman  who  bought  it  hasn't  come  to 
live  there  yet,  and  it  looks  mighty  lonely.  His  last  letter 
told  me,  too,  about  Miss  Lettuce  G-rant's  and  Mr.  Philips' 
weddinsf." 

But  the  entrance  of  the  rest  of  the  family  made  the 
conversation  general,  and  by  the  time  dinner  was  announced, 
''  Mr.  Woodruff"  was  the  established  darlins:  of  all  the 
children  of  the  household. 


xxm. 

Clear  Sliiiung  after  |laiii 

"  Edith." 

There  was  nothing  more  uttered  than  her  name,  and 
Edith  looked  np  from  the  handful  of  early  violets  gathered 
in  her  walk,  which  she  was  husying  herself  in  arranging, 
to  Bryant,  who  sat  at  the  brook's  side  near  her ;  but  he 
seemed  too  intent,  just  then,  on  trying  to  stem  the  ripples 
with  the  point  of  his  cane,  to  finish  his  sentence.  The 
March  afternoon  was  bright  and  beautiful  with  the  prom- 
ise of  Spring ;  the  air  was  musical  with  the  pleasant  piping 
of  the  robins  and  the  blue-jays,  as  they  flew  in  and  out 
among  the  budding  alders ;  the  sycamores  were  beginning 
to  look  geeen,  and,  under  the  withered  grass  and  leaves  at 
their  roots,  the  ''spring-beauties"  were  thrusting  up  their 
timid  heads,  as  if  a  Jittle  distrustful  that  the  promise  with 
which  the  whispering  airs  had  coaxed  them  from  their 
hiding-places,  might  not  be  fully  redeemed.  The  humming 
of  wild  bees  and  the  droninsr  of  flittinoj  insects  filled  the 


398  SILVERWOOD. 

atmosphere  with  a  drowsy  languor  that  seemed  to  steep 
the  meadow  slopes,  and  the  fringing  belt  of  woodland,  and 
the  forest-aisles,  through  which  the  stream  gurgled  away- 
over  its  blue  pebbles  with  low  laughter. 

"  Edith,  did  your  sister  ever  tell  you  the  story  of  my 
love  for  her  ?" 

"  Not  till  I  asked  her  if  she  had  not  a  story  to  tell," 
said  Edith,  entangling  her  violets  with  the  grass  she  had 
been  knotting  together  for  a  string  to  bind  them  with,  and 
letting  them  all  drop,  disarranged  again,  into  her  lap. 

''And  what  made  you  think  she  had  ?" 

"  That  would  be  a  difficult  question  to  answer.  "What 
makes  up  the  indescribable  Spring  fragrance  we  inhale  this 
moment  ?" 

"  The  mellowing  earth,  the  dried  leaves,  the  wet  mosses 
on  the  brook-side  yonder,  your  violets,  a  thousand  name- 
less things." 

"  '  A  thousand  nameless  things  !'  That  will  suffice  you 
for  an  answer,  then." 

"After  my  mother's  death,"  Bryant  went  on,  after  a 
pause,  "when  I  came  to  be  an  occasional  member  of  your 
family,  I  set  Zilpha  up  in  my  boyish  fancy  as  my  ideal  of 
girlish  loveliness.  I  never  undertook  to  amend  her, 
or  to  quarrel  Avith  her,  as  I  sometimes  did  with 
you.  My  admiration  threw  a  halo  around  her,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  mischievous  twinkle  her  eyes  used  to 
have  then,  and  the  archness  of  her  mouth,  which  seemed 
to  pass  almost  entirely  away  as  she  grew  up,  I  could  not 


CLEAR  SHINING  AFTER  RAIN.  399 

approach  her  in  that  perfectly  familiar  manner  indulged  in 
towards  you,  though  you  were  not  so  frank  as  she.  Ah  ! 
that  is  just  what  I  was  wanting  you  to  do,"  he  continued, 
as,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  Edith  tossed  the  flowers  into 
the  stream  ;  "  for  you  were  too  busy  with  them  to  listen. 
Come,  sit  on  this  old  log.  There,  that  is  it.  I  could  not 
half  see  you  before.  That  great  sycamore  kept  the  sun- 
light from  your  face. 

"  Well,  to  go  on  :  each  vacation  as  I  returned  from 
college,  I  found  some  new  phase  to  admire  in  the  develop- 
ing character,  which  grew  to  be  a  beautiful  study  to  me, 
as  I  would  sit  and  watch  upon  her  face  the  working  of 
the  cunning  sculptor.  Thought.  I  dwelt  upon  it  as  the 
student  of  art  does  on  one  of  Raphael's  Madonnas.  Indeed, 
I  V78nt  so  far  as  actually  to  have  a  small  copy  of  G-uido's 
Beatrice  taken,  because  of  the  resemblance  I  fancied  be- 
tween their  faces,  after  having  once  seen  Zilpha  represent 
that  picture  in  one  of  our  home  tableaux  vivants,  and  had 
it  hung  like  a  presiding  divinity  above  my  study  table. 
As  she  unfolded  into  fuller  womanhood,  there  was  a  pas- 
si  veness,  a  subjectivity  about  her,  such  as  her  earlier  years 
did  not  give  token  of.  The  change  surprised  me  some- 
what. It  did  not  lessen  my  delight  in  her,  I  think,  but  it 
made  her  more  unlike  myself.  The  p(^.rfect  transparency, 
simplicity,  and  thorough  ingenuousness  of  her  nature, 
made  it  specially  difficult  for  me  to  compel  her  to  any  un- 
derstanding of  my  feelings  to,wards  her.     She  never  did 


400  SILYERWOOD. 

know  them  till  we  traveled  together  southward.  Then, 
when  I  saw  the  steadiness  of  her  true  w^omanly  heart,  the 
depth  of  her  love  and  tenderness  towards  her  sick  brother, 
her  self-restraint  and  self-forgetfulness,  my  lips  were  un- 
sealed.    She,  herself,  has  told  you  the  rest." 

"Hard  to  give  her  up,  did  you  say,  Edith?  Yes,  it 
was  the  rude  breaking  of  the  dream  of  years;  but  I  taught 
myself  to  do  it.  Such  lessons  can  be  taught — can  be 
learned." 

"  Yes ;  by  men." 

"  And  women,  too,  if  they  choose  that  they  shall  be. 
I  brought  reason  at  once  to  bear  upon  the  case.  I  saw 
the  folly  of  granting  sustenance  to  an  utterly  hopeless 
love.  I  saw  the  injury  it  would  be  to  me  in  weakening 
my  zest  for  life's  enjoyments  and  life's  labors.  I  listened 
to  the  dictates  of  judgment ;  yes,  I,  with  my  passionate 
temperament,  wdiich  is  not  prone  to  be  cool  and  collected 
where  feeling  is  deeply  interested,  determined  upon  self- 
conquest — prayed  for  it — obtained  it.  And  when  we  met, 
as  you  remember  we  first  did,  that  sorrowful  night  of  her 
CO  mine:  home  with  Mr.  Flemina:,  I  could  see  her  lean  on 
his  arm  without  beiiisf  overmastered.  AYhen  intercourse 
had  shown  me  the  native  nobility  of  his  character,  the 
purity  of  his  heart,  the  strength  of  his  religious  principles, 
I  went  further.  Since  her  happiness  would  be  secure  in 
such  hands,  I  could  resign  her  wholly." 

"  Your  force  of  will  must  be  very  strong  to  be  able  to 


CLEAK  SHINING  AFTER  RAIN.  401 

compel  the  obedience  of  the  heart  and  affections  in  this 
way." 

"  It  is  strong.  You  might  remember  that  of  old,  Edith. 
I  have  long  made  it  a  principle  of  action,  when  I  have 
been  assured  that  my  volitions  were  right,  to  force  all  else 
to  bow  to  their  decisions.  Before  we  met,  I  had  some 
torturing  struggles  to  encounter  ;  but  after  listening  to  the 
tale  of  her  love  as  she  frankly  told  it  to  me  during  that 
week's  stay  at  Silverwood,  my  self-subjugation  was  com- 
plete. I  do  not  regret  that  I  have  loved  her,  Edith  ;  it  did 
me  good — made  me  purer — strengthened  me  through  the 
strife. 

"  Since  then — would  you  believe  it? — yes,  since  then, 
I  have  ventured  to  love  a2:ain.  You  see  I  have  no  faith 
in  '  the  heart's  one  spring-time.'  I  have  faith  in  the  pos- 
sibility of  a  wealth  of  summer  richness,  even  after  the 
frosts  of  disappointment  have  nipped  its  earlier  blooms. 
This  time,  it  is  not  an  enthusiastic  admiration — a  thral- 
dom before  qualities  esteemed  almost  perfect — it  is  a  deep, 
uncritical,  unquestioning  emotion  ;  in  short,  the  simple 
encasing  of  another  heart  within  my  own.  Will  you  let 
let  me  tell  you  this  story,  too,  Edith  ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  Edith,  turning  her  face  from  the  sun- 
shine that  flickered  down  through  the  thinly-fringed 
boughs  overhead,  and  disengaging  the  hand  Bryant  held, 
under  the  pretext  of  arranging  her  hair. 

^'  But  will  you  promise  to  be  interested  ?" 


402  SILVERWOOD. 

"  Yes  ;"  and  she  went  on  twining  up  the  long,  dark 
hraids.  '-'Yes;  dear  mother  begged  you  to  take  Law- 
rence's place,  and  you  have  done  it.  Surely  then,  what  so 
closely  touches  your  happiness,  cannot  be  indifferent  to  me." 

Something  glistened  on  the  black,  drooped  lashes,  as  a 
streak  of  silvery  light  fell  across  her  eyes,  which  did  not 
escape  Bryant's  observation. 

"  Well,  now  your  hair  -is  arranged,  your  hand  again. 
This  sweet,  tender  heart,  that  has  been  taken  into  mine, 
would  you  know  what  it  is  like  ?  It  is  not  as  tranquil,  nor 
as  evenly -beating,  nor  as  self-sustained,  nor  as  hopeful  as 
Zilpha's  ;  but  it  is  more  easily  stirred,  more  ardent,  more 
craving,  and  has,  /  think,  a  greater  capacity  for  loving. 
It  is  not  so  faultless  as  hers  ;  but  I  cherish  it  none  the  less 
for  that.  It  is  pleasant  to  have  what  is  more  akin  to  our- 
selves— to  find  something  to  blame  occasionally — something 
to  improve— something  to  be  planted,  as  we  plant  a  seed, 
and  watch  it  bud  and  blossom  under  our  own  weeding  and 
watering. 

"  '  Her  tastes  ?'  "Well,  they  are  exactly  such  as  I  would 
choose  them  to  be.  We  love  the  same  poets,  the  same 
books,  the  same  kind  of  people,  and  above  all  for  a  clergy- 
man, she  loves  with  an  equal  love  the  service  in  which  I 
am  engaged,  and  will  be  a  most  gentle  ministrant  therein. 
To  sum  up  the  matter,  the  key  that  can  unlock  the  inner- 
most being  of  the  one,  can  do  the  same  for  the  other.  Are 
we  not  congenial  enough  ?" 


CLEAR   SHIXIXG   AFTER   RAIN".  403 

"Yes;  just  what  \yill  suit  you,  it  appears." 
"  And  now  you  are  wanting  to  know  what  the  casket 
that  holds  my  jewel  is  like,  or  you  have  no  woman's  curi- 
osity. Suffice  it  to  say  that  it  is  fair  enough  in  every  re- 
spect to  please  me.  Is  not  that  satisfactory  ?  And  her  name  ? 
you  must  know  that.  Ah!  don't  turn  away  so,  Edith. 
Come,  I  want  to  enjoy  the  look  of  interest  on  your  face. 
Please  lift  your  eyes,  as  if  you  cared  to  know — yes,  that 
way.  Her  name" — and  Bryant  spoke  with  a  slow  delibe- 
rateness,  his  eyes  looking  steadfastly  into  those  that  drooped 
beneath  their  scrutiny — "  her  name  is  Edith — Edith  Ir- 
vine .'" 

The  upturned  face  blanched  with  sudden  paleness  ;  the 
slight  form  quivered,  but  the  next  moment  it  was  caught 
to  the  strong  loving  heart,  in  a  caress  whose  passionate 
tenderness  was  an  over-payment  for  all  the  tears  that  had 
dimmed,  and  the  disappointments  that  had  shadowed,  and 
the  sorrows  that  had  embittered  the  pathway  of  those 
young  years.  On  a  sudden,  the  Future  ceased  to  be  a 
level,  dead  sea,  on  whose  borders  grew  no  refreshing  fruits — 
over  whose  sullen  waters  no  winged  hopes  were  wafted ; 
but  it  stretched  away,  a  joyous,  sparkling  current ;  its 
every  chasm  bridged  across  by  that  marvellous  architect, 
Love ! 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Edith  could  utter  one  word. 
Surprise,  bewilderment,  tumult  of  soul,  confused  joy,  had 
struck  her  dumb.     Fast-showered  kisses  seemed  powerless 


404  SILVERWOOD. 

to  warm  back  the  blood  to  those  unresisting  lips,  and  the 
shut  eyes  had  no  look  to  give — nothing,  nothing  but  a 
struggling  tear.  Her  head  rose  and  fell  to  the  quickened 
pulsations  of  the  heart  against  which  it  was  pressed — a 
repose  how  exquisite  in  its  unuttered,  unutterable  luxury  ! 
But  the  word  so  pleaded  for,  trembled  forth  at  last. 

"  It  is  enough ;  I  ask  no  more  now;  I  am  wholly  satis- 
fied. I  have  been  seizing  occasional  chances  of  looking 
into  this  fluttering,  imprisoned  thing  beneath  my  hand 
here ;  and  may  I  tell  yo^ii  some  of  the  revelations  it  has 
unconsciously  made  to  me  ?  Ah  I  darling,  don't  look  dis- 
tressed. There  has  been  never  once,  any  unwomanly  un- 
veiling of  what  the  true  woman  will  always  hide  away  in 
her  heart's  farthest  corner,  as  her  most  jealously  guarded 
secret.  But  remember  how  peculiar  my  opportunities  of 
observation  have  been,  in  your  incautious  hours  of  anguish, 
when  you  forgot  to  think  of  your  mask.  No,  no ;  very 
slowly,  very  beautifully,  has  the  belief  of  what  I  now 
realize,  grown  upon  me  ;  but  too  slowly  to  keep  pace  with 
my  own  strengthening  love.  We  shall  have  multitudes  of 
such  revelations  for  each  other  now,  Edith — long  lessons 
which  it  will  take  us  years  to  learn." 

The  hidden  face  was  lifted  after  awhile ;  the  tears  suf- 
fered themselves  to  be  dried  away,  and  the  tender  smile 
ventured  forth,  triumphing  over  the  pressure  of  all  sad 
memories,  even  as  the  "  spring-beauties"  at  their  feet 
came  timidly  up,  at  the  call  of  the  life-giving  sun,  through 


CLEAR   SHINING   AFTER   RAIN.  ^405 

the  clogging  masses  of  last  year's  dead  leaves.  Hour  af- 
ter hour  passed,  and  still  the  beguiling  talk,  the  sweet 
"  tautologies  of  love"  flowed,  on  as  musically  as  the  brook 
beside  them.  The  story  of  the  good  fortune  Zilpha's  let- 
ter had  brought  tidings  of,  was  told,  with  all  her  proposed 
plans. 

"Admirable!"  said  Bryant,  as  he  listened.  "Edith 
dear,  we  will  make  this  European  trip  our  summer  bridal 
tour.  You  were  sorrowfully  disappointed  once — you  and 
Lawrence.  You  know  I  am  to  take  his  place.  We  will  go 
together  now." 

The  sun  was  darting  his  last  red  shafts  through  the 
alders;  the  robins  and  the  blue-jays  had  almost  ceased 
their  twitterings ;  and  only  a  rim  of  crimson  was  visible 
above  the  waveless,  western  horizon,  as  they  rose  to  turn 
homewards. 

"  And  now,"  said  Bryant,  holding  Edith's  unrelin- 
quished hand  still  in  his  own  ;  "  what  motto  shall  I  have 
engraved  inside  of  the  band  I  am  to  send  for  this  slender 
little  finger  ?" 

There  were  tears  again — grateful,  self-reproachful  tears 
in  Edith's  eyes  as  she  answered: — 

"  '•  Jehovali'jireh  ."  " 


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